


The Bane of Secomber

by maxmorgan



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 95,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxmorgan/pseuds/maxmorgan
Summary: Following the mysterious death of her father's prize-winning pig, keen reader Cerys Jones teams up with local lawman Diero Astorio, to find the culprit. Along the way, however, she uncovers a conspiracy that threatens to shake the very foundations of small-town life in Secomber.A series of cryptic clues left in a book about the famed mage, Blackstaff, and a lone wizard in red take Cerys on a bizarre journey exposing the idyllic town of Secomber to be nothing more than a den of greed and deceit. Things in Secomber are about to change for good, and if Cerys can't unmask the wizard in red, they might just change for bad.Set in Faerûn just prior to Scourge of the Swordcoast.





	1. An Ill-Advised Investment

  The unmistakable chink of coins in a purse hitting the table drew Cerys Jones from her daydream. Glancing up, she turned her attention from gazing through the window, out at the pig stye, where Wilmorn - her father’s prize-winning pig - had collapsed in the summer heat, into a pile of his own fresh excrement, and turned it, instead, to where her parents sat at the kitchen table a mere few feet away from her.

  Her mother’s narrow eyes were more inquisitive than usual, and her father’s flushed cheeks were redder, and neither were saying a word. Casting her gaze towards the coin purse, she watched in curious silence as her father turned it upside down, emptying its contents onto the table.

  “That’s not a lot,” her mother said, keeping her voice down, as if she feared the neighbours hearing just how poor they were. She wasn’t wrong, however. Twelve gold, six silver, and one copper coin was not a lot.

  “It’s all we have,” her father said, reaching for his wife’s hand. Cerys was not surprised to see her mother pull her hand away.

  “Should we not be holding onto it?” she asked. “I feel… I feel uncomfortable throwing away our life savings, Igor.”

  Igor scoffed and shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Throwing away? Ann, this is our daughter we’re talking about - and… and not just that, but this is an  _investment_.”

  Cerys tilted her head to one side. She wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but if it was about her, she felt they really ought to be including her in the discussion. Rising to her feet from the comfortable armchair, she cleared her throat.

  Both Igor and Ann looked at their daughter, albeit only briefly, before they returned to looking at one another. Ann swallowed and nodded to her husband, who nodded back and once again looked at Cerys.

  “Your dowry,” he said.

  Cerys’ brows rose. She hadn’t expected that. She wasn’t  _upset_. In fact, she felt close to nothing. Well, that depended entirely on who they were going to pay it to. There were a number of men that came to find for whom she’d rather die childless and alone than so much as shake hands with.

  “Mother’s right,” she said. “While I’m… obviously grateful, that money would be far better spent on the farm and our livelihoods.”

  Igor shook his head. “Yeah, so it’s your dowry.”

  Cerys took her seat again, but continued staring at her parents. “You believe this is going to make you more money? My marriage is going to be an investment?” she asked. Tapping her chin, she sighed. “Just who did you have in mind?”

  “Well…” That wasn’t a good start in Cerys’ mind. Ann put a scrawny hand on Igor’s meaty shoulder. He placed his own over the top of it and squeezed. “There’s just… there’s not a lot of work in Secomber.”

  “So this is someone who isn’t local, then.”

  “Kind of?”

  “Please just spit it out.”

  “Madevic Vargoba.”

  Cerys turned back around to face the window, sitting in stunned silence. He was… an attractive man. He certainly wasn’t  _from_  Secomber, though he had been living amongst them for a number of years now. He was popular amongst women. Cerys could appreciate that. She wasn’t exactly sure he would agree to this arrangement, though she was flattered her parents would try. He was nice enough - polite, certainly - and he was ambitious; all admirable traits, and yet… on one of the occasions she’d spoken to him, he’d made a dismissive comment about  _reading_ , and she wasn’t entirely sure she could forgive that.

  “Madevic Vargoba,” she echoed, repeating the word as if taking time to consider the taste of his name in her mouth. She drummed her fingers on her knee, before turning once again to look at her parents. “Well, you’ll have a hard time convincing him. Nice as he is, he and I don’t really see eye to eye on topics of academia.”

  “You what on aca-what now?” her father asked, straining his brow.

  “He doesn’t like to read.”

  Ann scoffed, throwing her hands into the air in defeat. “Gods forbid someone have different interests to you, Cerys! Well, I guess that makes him a total write-off!” she snapped. “Do you hear yourself? I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of finding you some posh man from some posh town who’s good with numbers and… and… and his words and all that!”

  “I’m not saying-”

  “He’s well-off, he’s a gentleman, and he wants to move to the city to make himself even more well-off,” her father said. Cerys rolled her eyes. Madevic had to know he wouldn’t get very far in the city unless he learned how to read. He had to. How could he not?

  “Which of  _his_  hobbies are  _you_  into?” Ann asked.

  “Well…  _none_ , which is the precise reason I think we’re-”

  “Exactly, dear! You’re not perfect either.”

  “That’s not-”

  “And not everyone even has the  _time_  for hobbies. Some of us have to actually work,” her father interjected, somehow managing to add nothing to the discussion.

  “Reading isn’t a  _hobby_ ,” she groaned.

  “Oh gods, here we go.”

  “It’s a crucial skill to getting by in life. There’s nothing trivial about mathematics and literature. Knowing how to read and write, and knowing how to work with numbers - those things are  _vital_  to running a successful business.”

  “Yep,” Ann snapped. “Go on, Cerys. Tell us how to run a business with all your years of wisdom. What would  _we_  know? We’ve only worked our farm for… how many years now, Igor?”

  “My father was a farmer,” he said, “and his father before him, and  _his_  father before him. Are you honestly going to try and tell us you somehow know more about farming than us, dear?”

  “Well, not farming, no… but as far as business goes, I  _do_  think there are some things we could be doing different,” she said.

  “Are you some kind of expert, Cerys?”

  “Well, no… but I’ve read  _books_  by-”

  “Now listen here,” her father said, with an abruptness that brought her to a halt. “If all these stuck-up folks who wrote these books really knew what they were talking about, they’d be out in the field working and they wouldn’t have time to be writing these books. Right, Ann?”

  “Right.”

  “I get it. You’re a young lass, and it’s hard to tell the difference between people who know a lot, and people who say they know a lot… Especially when some folks are real confident. But we know what’s best for us - and we know what’s best for you, and what’s best for all of us is moving to a city like Neverwinter - or Waterdeep - and buying a farm there. A lot more trade than little old Secomber,” he said. “And that isn’t going to happen without some compromise. I know you’d like to sit on a throne made of books, but we can’t all spend our lives doing nothing, Cerys. At some point, you’re going to have to get your hands dirty.”

  “And so you want me to marry Madevic Vargoba.”

  “He’s moving on up, Cerys. Are we going to move on up with him, or sit here struggling to sell pork in a town of pig farmers?”

  “Yours are prize-winning pigs, father.”

  “Damn right, they are. And they’ll win even bigger prizes in an even bigger town.”

  Cerys drew in a trembling breath and rose to her feet. She nodded, or at least tried to. The silence was palpable. Bowing her head, she strode towards the stairs and ascended, heading straight for her bedroom.

  She threw herself onto her bed, and let out a grunt as she landed on a book. Digging it out from underneath her, she was about to throw it at a wall, when she stopped herself, instead staring at its cover. It was the only book she owned; a collection of tales - some in the form of poems - about a heroic dark elf, Drizzt Do’Urden.

  Groaning she dropped it down on her pillow and rolled onto her side. She didn’t want to marry Madevic Vargoba, and this book was precisely why. He wanted to be an adventurer - a hero. He wanted people to write celebratory tales about his deeds, and yet he could not even be bothered to read about the others who’d not only walked his path before him, but who’d  _paved_  the way.

  And her parents were wrong. Adventuring as a career had a very high turnover; she’d heard that from Diero Astorio, the local lawman. Having read the book about the dark elf, she wasn’t surprised. It sounded dangerous, and she felt that anyone would have to be utterly insane to venture into places like Icewind Dale, where - according to the book, at least - death and doom lurked around every corner. It was certainly  _not_  an investment to marry a man who would set them up in a comfortable home, only for him to wander off chasing glory, and  _die_ , thus leaving her and her parents in a home they could not afford to keep. And her parents would know that, did they care in the slightest for academia.

  She was dragged from her sulk when the front door knocked. Jumping to her feet, she leapt over a pile of parchment, landing with a crash the other side of the heap. Grabbing onto the window sill to steady herself, she peered down to see who might have knocked, and saw Madevic, whose hand remained lingering in the air - about to knock again.

  Parchment flew into the air as she charged through the mess, and descended the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, before staggering into the downstairs room, arm outstretched to see her father staring at her in horror.

  “Wait, don’t! It’s-”

  It was too late. Her mother was already holding the door open.

  “Mr Vargoba!” Cerys gasped in feigned surprise. “I’m… it’s… hi.”

  “You seem alarmed to see me,” Madevic said, his smooth voice weaving through the sentence as if he were particularly proud of his word choices.

  “I…  _yes_?”

  “Odd,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  “Well, considering I just saw you gazing at me through your window.”

  “Oh! Was… was that  _you_?” she asked, finally catching her breath. “I… I definitely saw  _someone_. I didn’t… didn’t quite know  _who_ … Anyway! What can we do for you?” she asked.

  “I thought you recognised me, and that’s why you had ran down the stairs.”

  “Run.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why I had  _run_  down the stairs.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Cerys felt herself shrinking. Smaller, and smaller, until she was invisible. Only, she wasn’t. Everyone in the room was staring at her. She smiled.

  “I came here about the Summer Fête,” he said, eyes narrowing. She stared back, unsure of where this was going. “You know… the one on today?”

  Her eyes widened rather suddenly. “ _Oh_! Was… was that  _today_?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, and offered his arm.

  “I... can’t.”

  “What?” Ann gasped.

  “Why?” Igor asked.

  “Because… I have an important…  _thing_ … to do…”

  “Nonsense!” Ann growled, glaring daggers at Cerys, who wondered for a brief moment how brave Drizzt Do’Urden would have been in the face of her mother. “Of course she will accompany you, dear,” she added, turning back to Madevic with a smile.

  Cerys forced a smile of her own. “Well… how can I argue with that?” she asked, smile faltering already. Madevic shifted his gaze between the three Joneses, with a great deal of uncertainty before taking a step backwards and gesturing for Cerys to follow.

  She pulled a face as he turned his back, and stopped by the door to shoot her parents a look to tell them exactly how she felt, on the way out. This wasn't quite the calm afternoon she'd hoped for.

  As she stepped into the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun, she experienced an unexpected lightheadedness. She was uncertain if it were the heat, or if it were the nerves gnawing at her insides. She’d marry this man, if it was what her parents wanted. She’d do it. Even though it was financially unsound, and a terrible risk. She’d do it. But it was only likely to happen if he didn’t have to spend much time with her, because he wasn’t going to like her, and he certainly wasn’t going to love her.

  She followed him down the path towards the village centre, glancing despairingly over her shoulder at her parents as they waved to her from the front door.


	2. One Drink Too Many

  Madevic said nothing as they walked. She considered saying something - anything - to break the silence, but instead found some solace in the distant murmur of chatter. Carried on the wind was the sound of a crumhorn, distorted by the distance. The rustle of grass underfoot stopped, bringing Cerys to her senses. Madevic was no longer walking. She stopped, and turned her head to look at him.

  “What a view,” he said. She continued to stare at him, before realising he was likely talking about something he could actually  _see_ , and quickly followed his gaze to three brightly-coloured pavilions. The shock of blue, red, and yellow peeking through the trees  _was_  beautiful, she supposed, if one were interested in that sort of thing. Smiling, she nodded with a non-committal grunt.

  He looked her up and down. She prepared herself for whatever was about to come out of his mouth - undoubtedly something that would irritate her, about how she didn’t pay enough attention to the beautiful world around her, or how she’d miss too much if she didn’t take her nose out of that damned book every once in a while, or how life would pass her by if she did not do something with it.

  “Red really isn’t your colour.”

  She choked. “I…  _what_?”

  “It’s just… not your colour,” he repeated. “This makeup you have on your face. The red. It doesn’t suit you. I think your face is more than adequate without it, Miss Jones.”

  Her cheeks flushed. Red. Which she hated. She wasn’t even wearing makeup and so she had not expected a comment about her appearance. She wasn’t even sure why he would make one, or why he was even looking, or what relevance it had to a throwaway comment about the sight of the Summer Fête.

  “I…”

  “It’s okay,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She seized up under his touch. “Let’s go.” With that said, he continued towards the village centre. She watched his feet disappear into the long grass, and came to the sudden realisation that she’d left her shoes at home. Sighing, she fell into line behind him.

  As they passed through the copse and into the paved courtyard beyond, the tuneless crumhorn took on a more melodic refrain, though it was hard to hear over the buzz of conversation. The bustling crowd struggled to fit under the three pavilions. Countless food stalls sat under the shade of the red pavilion, and tables, covered in clothes and rolls of cloth, lay under the yellow. Beneath the blue was a bar.

  “Let’s get drinks,” Madevic said, gesturing to the blue tent. Cerys nodded, though she could think of nothing less interesting than sitting for a drink with Madevic Vargoba. When she returned home, she’d have to introduce her parents to the concept of compromising. She’d marry him, certainly, but she didn’t want to spend time with him. That seemed fair.

  She pushed through the crowd, careful to not trip over Mara Marsk’s chickens as they clucked and hopped beneath the feet of the busy mob.

  “You know,” Madevic called over his shoulder, nearly lost in the sea of fête-goers, “I bet Waterdeep puts on an even better Summer Fête than Secomber.”

  Cerys would have thought that were obvious. Thinking about it logically - without a sense of pride for one’s hometown, of course - a city, such as Waterdeep, had infinitely more wealth than a small town like Secomber. It was then only natural that they were able to invest money into the fête or festival, as it would bring in tourism. Secomber had passing trade, but certainly no tourism.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think you would be correct on that.”

  “Sorry, what?” he asked, and Cerys became suddenly aware of how long she’d been pondering the idea of Waterdeep’s industry for tourism, and that Madevic had continued talking in that time, moving onto some other topic of conversation. Although, to call it conversation would imply she’d had any input.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  They arrived at the blue pavilion, stepping in under the shade. The bar was set up in the centre of the tent, surrounded by small circular tables dotted about the place. Madevic gestured for Cerys to take a seat.

  "My shout,” he said. “What do you want?”

  She glanced out at the sweating crowd. “Just water,” she said, and turned her attention back to him. His features screwed up.

  “It’s a festival! Don’t be like that.”

  “Honestly, I feel rather faint, and I’d rather not gamble with my luck.” 

  “Nonsense! You’ll be fine,” he said, and clapped her on the back. She stumbled forwards, and threw a hand out just in time to grab a table and steady herself. Looking up to protest him buying her a beer, she realised he had already gone, and instead sighed and pulled herself up onto the stool tucked under the table.

  She was just about to rest her head on said table, when she felt a hand on her back. With a flinch, she turned to look over her shoulder, coming face to face with Mara Marsk. Mara was a short woman, and yet whose spectacles still seemed too small for her face. At least she seemed to have found someone to repair them. When she’d spotted Mara only last week, one of the lenses had been cracked and the poor woman hadn’t been able to find her way around town.

  “Mrs Marsk,” she said. “It’s delightful to see you-”

  “I’ll tell you what’s delightful, young Miss Jones,” she said, a certain coyness to her tone.

  “Oh?”

  “Seeing you out with a boy! Isn’t that a sight to behold - and not just any boy, but that handsome Gur, Madevic Vargoba, no less!” Mara practically squealed in delight. Cerys tried to smile, but only managed to bare her teeth ever so slightly. A grimace. That’s what that was. A grimace.

  “Well, he-”

  “Oh, what a handsome man he is. You’re a lucky girl! If I were fifty years younger-”

  “Mrs Marsk, are you aware your chickens have escaped their coop again?” Cerys asked, eager to get rid of Mara Marsk, or at the very least change the subject. Mara’s eyes widened, the smile dropping from her face. “Oh yes,” Cerys said. “I very nearly trod on one but five minutes ago.”

  Mara Marsk’s face twisted in horror. “Oh heavens!” She gasped, backing away from Cerys before pivoting on the spot. The elderly woman wasn’t even out of sight before Cerys’ nose was assaulted by the stale stench of pipe smoke.

  “Mr Astorio,” she said, with a sigh.

  “Miss Jones, did I just see you with-”

  “Yes. Madevic Vargoba,” she groaned.

  “No. I meant Mrs Marsk.”

  Cerys’ brow furrowed. Why Diero Astorio would be interested in Mara Marsk was beyond her comprehension. She watched him with a great deal of curiosity as he manoeuvred around the table to stand before her. Even on her stool, she still had to look up at him. He blew a cloud of smoke into her face.

  She coughed and turned away, flapping her hand about in the air as if it might actually help disperse the disgusting smell. With a half-glower, she turned back to him.

  “What about her?” she asked.

  “You’re a smart girl, Miss Jones. You must have noticed something awry.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Mara Marsk, but now that he’d mentioned it, she knew she’d be second-guessing everything the poor woman did, searching for any abnormality, and she knew she was bound to find many. Of course she would if she was going looking for it.

  “And how does that concern you?” she asked.

  “Well, Miss Jones, people who behave in such a peculiar manner are - more often than not - up to something,” he said, and tapped his nose. Cerys rolled her eyes and shook her head. Ridiculous. He had to be paranoid. Mara Marsk couldn’t get up to anything even if she tried. She couldn’t keep control of her own damned chickens; there was no way she could keep atop of some nefarious plan to do… whatever it was Diero Astorio was insinuating.

  “Right,” she said, cocking a brow. “Well, I wish you the best of luck with that.”

  “Much appreciated,” he said, and almost turned to leave, but stopped. Tilting his head to one side, he looked her up and down, thoroughly scrutinising her. She wrapped her arms around herself. “What was that about Madevic Vargoba, you said?”

  Cerys drew breath, trying to come up with anything to get him to leave, when - as if on cue - the man in question himself clapped Diero on the back. Diero jumped, and turned his head to get a look at his assailant. As his eyes met Madevic’s, he took a step away and turned his attention back to Cerys, who he stared at with such intensity, she wondered if she was about to be arrested.

  “ _Most_ curious,” he said.

  “Diero!” Madevic half-sang. “It is a pleasure to see you!”

  “Quite possibly,” Diero agreed. Or didn’t. Cerys wasn’t quite sure. “Well, I shan’t keep you, Miss Jones. Thank you for your time and this absolutely  _insightful_ encounter.”

  Cerys nodded, plain eager for him to leave. He lingered for a moment longer, seemingly to study Madevic from up-close, as if this was the first time they’d been in such close proximity to one another. It certainly wasn’t; Madevic was a loud drunk. Cerys wasn’t sure what kind of drunk she was. She didn’t dare touch her father’s alcohol, and the weekly food budget didn’t exactly account for wine.

  Waving off Diero, the drinks in Madevic’s hands sloshed about, spilling amber liquid over the cobbled ground beneath them. Cerys wondered if it were that smart to put tables and stools on top of cobbles, or if that would make them rock incessantly. Placing her hand atop the table, she found her suspicions to be correct.

  Madevic slid onto a stool beside Cerys, and put the drinks on the table. It wobbled nervously, and Cerys gripped onto the edge of the table to hold it still.

  “The day is so lovely,” he said.

  Cerys gazed out of the tent. It was too hot for her. She would have much preferred a cooler day - perhaps even just a breeze. Closing her eyes, she felt like she was floating.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Just lightheaded,” she murmured. “I haven’t yet eaten today.”

  “We shall get some food after,” he said. “But first, a drink. It’ll help.”

  It wouldn’t - and Cerys knew that. The alcohol was likely to dehydrate her further, but she also knew trying to argue that with someone such as Madevic was a battle already lost.

  “So what did you want to do today?” she asked, pulling her drink towards her, despite her apprehensions. She traced the rim of the glass with her finger, still holding the table still with her other hand.

  “There are some stalls. Thoradin has baked some of his sweet rolls. I haven’t had one yet, so…” he said, and shrugged.

  Cerys snorted. “You’ve been here three years and you haven’t yet tried Thoradin’s sweet rolls?” she asked.

  “Hey, don’t you judge me,” Madevic said with a laugh, flicking her bare shoulder with his hand. She let go of the table to rub at the red mark, when he suddenly tried to move his stool closer to her. He knocked the table, and her mug wobbled, spilling more of its contents across the tabletop.

  “Oh!” She gasped, leaning back.

  “I’m ever so sorry!” Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a scrap of cloth and dropped it onto the table, letting it soak up the spilled drink. “Here, you take mine,” he said.

  “It’s fine. Honestly.”

  “No, I insist.”

  Cerys didn’t want conflict. She nodded, doing her best to look appreciative. He seemed to believe her, as he bowed his head and offered his drink. She took it from him, and he pulled  _her_  drink across the table, closer to him.

  “So your parents seem to think we’d be a good match.”

  Her stomach knotted. She could not believe they were seriously going to be having this conversation here - in a tent - slap bang in the centre of town during the Summer Fête. She grunted noncommittally in response, and he smiled.

  “I think so, too,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “You’re rather plain-”

  “ _Okay_ ,” she said, interrupting him and desperate to change the subject of the conversation. He shook his head.

  “No, you misunderstand. You are rather plain but there is something about you. You’re an intriguing girl.”

  “Woman.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not a child. I’m a woman.”

  “Right, right,” he said, but trailed off. It was clear to Cerys, she’d disrupted his flow. She felt she could probably live with that. “Anyway… so… I’m glad you came here with me, today.”

  Cerys didn’t know how to respond to that. She didn’t particularly consider herself an intriguing girl - or woman - and she wasn’t entirely certain what she’d done to give him that impression. Either way, it wasn’t exactly the impression she wanted him to have. If he found her intriguing, it would only make him ask questions she did not wish to answer.

  “Well,” she said, as if that was somehow a sentence in and of itself. He inclined his head expectantly, waiting for her to continue, but she didn’t, and after a moment of looking hopeful, he leaned back on his stool.

  He lifted the hand his drink was in and nodded his head before taking a sip. Cerys nodded back, and sipped at her own - slightly fuller - mug. Thirsty, she kept drinking beyond the sip, and Madevic’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched the slight woman gulp down the drink. He matched her - though, as far as Cerys was concerned, he’d had a head start, what with spilling a fair amount of the drink before starting. Not that it was a competition. She’d just be winning if it was. Which it wasn’t.

  “Great. So. Food?” he asked, seemingly unfazed by downing the beer. Cerys caught her breath and nodded.

  “Food,” she said.

  Madevic took the mug from her hand, and placed both her mug and his own onto the table before sliding off the stool. She followed suit. Gesturing to the crowd outside the pavilion, he waited for her to start walking, and then placed a hand on the small of her back - a sensation that sent her skin crawling - and guided her out.


	3. Heat-Stroked Ego

  The food tent was only partially shady. A large tear in the roof of the red pavilion let a rogue streak of sunlight bake the grass right beside Thoradin Frostbeard’s table, where he and his husband stood - barely visible - past the stacks of variously flavoured sweet rolls. Cerys thought Madevic would have headed straight for the sweet rolls. However, this was not the case, as instead, he manoeuvred through the crowd and straight for Lavinia Greenbottle’s sausage stand.  She wasn’t sure if he’d done this on purpose, but said nothing either way, and followed him with her head down, as if it might hide who she was. In such a small town, it seemed unlikely. Especially considering the feud between Lavinia, and her own father, Igor.

  Drawing close to the table, the succulent scent of Lavinia’s sausages wafted over Cerys and her mouth watered. She hadn’t realised she was so hungry, but her stomach chose then to remind her. She couldn’t. Her father would never forgive her.

  “This all smells wonderful, Mrs Greenbottle!” Madevic said, moving to put his hands down upon the stall table. Lavinia swiped at him with her tongs, and he recoiled with reflexes Cerys thought he ought to be proud of.

  “Well if it isn’t a Jones.” Lavinia sneered down her nose, looking Cerys up and down. “What are  _ you _  doing here?”

  “I’m… with him,” Cerys mumbled, gesturing weakly to Madevic. Lavinia looked between the two, eyes narrowing further. Cerys thought the halfling woman had a point. Igor wouldn’t  _ let _  Cerys marry this man if he found out he’d been poking his nose around Lavinia Greenbottle’s sausages - investment or not. Perhaps that was for the best. It  _ was a _  bad investment, after all… even if her parents could not see that.

  “And what do you want?”

  “Well, I couldn’t come here and  _ not _  have a try of your sausages,” Madevic said, seemingly unshaken by Lavinia’s rather bitter tone. Cerys looked away.

  “What? So you can go back to Igor Jones and slander me behind my back?” she asked.

  Cerys let out an involuntary groan. “Oh for goodness sake! No one slanders you behind your back, Mrs Greenbottle.” It was, of course, the wrong thing to say, as Lavinia’s eyes widened in fury, and she folded her arms.

  “Is that so? Well you tell that father of yours, if he thinks he’s so much better than me, he won’t bribe the judges next time! Because my darling Portia was better, and he knows it! He knows it!”

  The rest of Lavinia Greenbottle’s rant turned to mist in Cerys’ head as she was overcome with a spell of dizziness. Putting a hand to her head, she stumbled backwards a few steps, and Madevic turned to catch her.

  “Miss Jones!” He gasped. “Are you quite alright?”

  “I’m fine… it’s just too hot,” she groaned.

  “Oh! Pretend to faint, why don’t you?” Lavinia screeched. Madevic put up a hand to silence her, and her cheeks turned scarlet at the sheer audacity of someone interrupting her. In the brief lapse of Lavinia’s whinging, Madevic guided Cerys away from the stall, and through the crowd, towards Thoradin Frostbeard’s sweet rolls.

  “This way,” he said as they approached the stand. Cerys nodded, somewhat hazily as she attempted to pull herself upright and out of Madevic’s grasp, and managed, though just about.

  “Oh, Miss Jones, you look rather flushed - are you alright?” Rurik Frostbeard, Thoradin’s husband, asked. She waved a dismissive hand, though put her other hand to her chest, where she could feel her heart hammering violently beneath her skin.

  “I’m fine. Honestly. I’m fine.”

  “You be careful, Miss,” he said, before turning to Madevic. He had to look almost directly upwards to get a good look at Madevic’s face. “Ah, Mr Vargoba! How might us Frostbeards help you?”

  “I have not had the chance to try your infamous sweet rolls,” Madevic said with a grin.

  “Infamous?” Thoradin asked, ready to tear into Madevic. He scratched behind his head, before pulling his dark dreadlocks up, securing them in place with a small piece of twine.

  “Well, yes… because I’ve heard they are more addictive than Traveller’s Dust!” he said in a laugh, and Thoradin’s features relaxed. Shrugging, he put his arm around Rurik, before patting him on the shoulder. Rurik’s bright green eyes lit up, the freckles across his nose scrunching up with his smile. Insufferable.

  “We do try. Well go on then! Have one, on us. You don’t mind, do you Thoradin?”

  “Course not!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course! Because you’re damn right! You’ll be buying another in no time! Isn’t that right, Rurik?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well, if you’re certain.”

  Their words blurred in and out of focus and Cerys could no longer keep her eyes open. She wobbled on her feet, and nearly tumbled to the side, catching herself just in time. Though, now she felt warmer than before.

  She was floating again. Spinning, possibly. Or perhaps she was upside down. No, definitely floating. But if she  _ was _  floating, why then, was it she could feel something scratchy pressed against her cheek? Opening her eyes, somewhat groggily, she came face to face with grass.

  She groaned.

  “Miss Jones!” Madevic gasped, dropping into a squat beside her. “What happened?”

  “When?” she asked.

  “You fainted, dear,” Rurik said, his voice soft and cooing, as though he were speaking to a child. She was not a  _ child _ . She was a  _ woman _ . His words didn’t quite make sense at first, but then Cerys realised she had somehow managed to step into the  _ one _  patch -  _ in the entire tent _  - where she could not escape the sun. And not one soul had thought to move her, although to Madevic’s credit - intentionally or not - he had positioned himself where he might then cast a shadow upon her. He was illuminated from behind, and she thought perhaps any other woman might have found him radiant with his halo of sunlight. She felt nothing but contempt. Scathing contempt.

  “I don’t… I don’t feel well,” she said, trying to sit up. Rurik took her arm, helping her to her feet.

  “You don’t look it,” Thoradin remarked.

  “You know what the poor lass needs?” Rurik asked, though from the tone of his voice, Cerys had no doubts he was about to tell the group even if they did not care to hear the answer. “I think she’s about due some of Haseid Jassan’s gelato.”

  Madevic nodded, and moved to slip his arm around her back. She stepped away, causing herself another wave of lightheadedness, and nearly stumbling over sideways again.

  “I’m  _ fine _ ,” she snapped. “I don’t need everyone grabbing me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I did not mean to upset you,” Madevic said. He sounded sincere, but Cerys was not entirely convinced.

  “Let’s get a chair for you over by Mr Jassan. How does that sound?” Rurik asked.

  Cerys merely grunted, and rolled her eyes. With a groan, she shrugged and sighed in defeat. “Fine,” she said, and Rurik gave her a warm smile. Cerys had definitely had enough of warm  _ anything _ .

  Despite her protests, Rurik and Madevic insisted on escorting her over to Haseid Jassan’s stall, and into a chair that Thoradin had wandered off to find. She wrapped her arms around herself, and sank into the chair, avoiding eye contact with Madevic.

  “What happened to the girl?” Haseid asked, peering down at her. She shuddered.

  “Woman,” she corrected him, though her voice was too weak to carry.

  “She passed out. Must be from the heat,” Rurik said. “We brought her here to have some of your gelato.”

  “Well, of course! Anything I can do to help. What flavour would you like Miss Jones?”

  “Flavour?” Thoradin scoffed. “The poor girl just passed out, Haseid! I don’t think the flavour matters!”

  “ _ Still a woman _ ,” Cerys whispered, staring down at her knees.

  “Of  _ course _  the flavour matters,” Haseid insisted, somewhat defensively. “Doesn’t it, Miss Jones?”

  “It’s fine. Honestly. I’m fine. Really, there’s honestly no need for this fuss.”

  “How about salted caramel?” he asked.

  “It’s fine, I just-”

  “You don’t like salted caramel? Well… I’ve also got toffee-”

  “Salted caramel is fine,” she said, sighing in frustration.

  “Right away, Miss Jones.”

  In the tales contained within the book Cerys owned, city-dwellers seldom helped others. From what she’d read, they were more likely to complain about a fainted festival attendee than do anything to help them. She wondered if, perhaps, marrying Madevic - despite it potentially being a financial catastrophe - and moving to the city might possibly be a good thing after all. At the very least, it would see the end to all this senseless fussing.

  She wasn’t sure why she’d reacted so badly to the heat. She’d felt a little warm earlier. After all, it was a warm day and her mother  _ had _  been stewing lamb over the fire, and so the house was warmer than she would have liked. Despite her warmth, however, she’d felt fine enough, even if she’d have liked a breeze. She’d never reacted well to stress, and being out with Madevic was certainly more stressful than  _ not _  being out with Madevic, but even still… passing out in the village centre was simply mortifying.

  Unaware any time had passed, Cerys was taken by surprise when Haseid waved a bowl of soft brown gelato in front of her. She took it, and let the bowl rest in her lap as Madevic moved in with a spoon. She stared in disbelief.  _ Surely not _ . He wasn’t going to try and  _ feed _  her, was he? Not if she had anything to say about it. Reaching up, with surprising reflexes, she plucked the spoon from between his fingers, and scooped some of the gelato up, bringing the spoon up to her mouth in one graceful motion.

  That’s when she realised all four men were still stood around watching her. She hesitated, lips parted. No one moved.

  “What?” she asked. No one responded. “Look, I’m… I’m very grateful for all of…  _ this _ … but honestly I think I just need some… air - some space - and I’m personally feeling a little crowded, right now.”

  “Right!” Haseid announced, rather loudly, causing Cerys, Madevic, and the two dwarven men to all flinch. “You heard the girl-”

  “ _ Woman _ .”

  “She needs some space. Back off, back off.”

  With a great deal of reluctance, Madevic nodded - albeit with a sigh - and stepped away from Cerys. Both Rurik and Thoradin were quick to follow. The latter gave her a shallow nod. Rurik flashed a smile. With that, they were back to their stall, with Madevic in tow. Cerys sighed in relief and leaned back in the chair, taking deep breaths.

  “You seem like you’re about to burst,” Haseid said, glancing over to her from behind his own stand.

  She looked at him. He seemed fine. Most of Secomber looked lightly toasted, if not outright burned, but she supposed this heat was likely nothing compared to Calimshan’s scorching summers. Nodding in response to him, she turned her attention to the tubs of gelato.

  “Why doesn’t it melt?” she asked. She could feel an unusual coolness emanating from them, and wondered if it would be pleasant to press her cheek to the tins.

  “What?” he asked, then followed her gaze down to the metal tins. “Oh, this?” He laughed. “Enchanted tins. They’re always very cold to the touch.”

  “Did you bring them from Calimshan?”

  He nodded. “They were pleasant in Calimshan, but I admit I have to wrap up warm when I take these back to my cottage. Secomber’s weather is far milder than down south.” He paused, to study her. “You really don’t look well, Miss Jones. Perhaps we should call for Mr Astorio.”

  Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m fine. Honestly, I am.”

  “So you said, but you can’t see yourself.”

  "It’s a bit of sunburn. I’ll feel better after sitting in the shade for a while.”

  It was Haseid’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t think it’s sunburn, dear. Your skin isn’t red. You’re… well…  _ grey _ .”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re grey. Your face is grey and clammy. I think you might have come down with something,” he said. Cerys lifted her hand to touch her face, as if she might feel the colour somehow. “I think we should get someone to find Mr Astorio.”

  “I feel fine,” she said, but she didn’t. Now that she thought about it, she felt most cold. She finished the gelato and handed the bowl back to Haseid before wrapping her arms around herself further.

  “If you’re sure,” he said, and she nodded.

  “I might just… head home,” she said, and slowly rose to her feet. “If… if you see him…”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Madevic… If you see him… tell him I… I had to…”

  Cerys’ world turned black and, once again, she felt as if she were floating.


	4. Near-Death Experience

  When she came to, Cerys found herself in a dark room. The curtains were drawn, and it took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the low light. She was on a plush settee, with a blanket over her body, and a damp cloth stuck to her forehead. She supposed it ought to have been a cool, damp cloth, but as she reached up to touch it, she noted it wasn’t so cool anymore.

  “Careful, now,” came the voice of Diero Astorio, from the other side of the room. “If you move too fast you may collapse again.”

  “Again?” she asked, then remembered the pavilion, and the heat, and the grass scratching her cheek. Twice. Groaning, she sat up sluggishly. Her throat was dry, and her entire body ached, but none of this felt quite as bad as the bitter throb of humiliation. “Who brought me here?”

  “Well, aren’t you a popular girl-”

  “Woman.”

  “Right you are. A popular woman then.” He didn’t need to finish. She could already picture Madevic and the Frostbeards causing quite the scene, bellowing for fête-goers to make way as they carried her unconscious body through the streets. Diero said nothing more.

  “I’m sorry for the bother.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You’ve given me quite the mystery.”

  “Mystery?” she asked.

  “The mystery of the  _woman_  with filth fever, and yet no clear sign of how she got it,” he said. Cerys recoiled at the sound of his words. “Oh yes, you heard that right. You, Miss Jones, have filth fever.”

  Cerys wasn’t entirely sure what to say in response to that. “Are you quite certain?” she asked, after pondering it for a moment. He nodded, though she supposed he was unlikely to deny it at this point. After all, he wouldn’t have said it were he not at least a little sure. “Well,” she said.

  “Quite,” he responded.

  Shuffling around until she was in a more comfortable position, Cerys dug her fingers into the soft green settee. She heard Diero Astorio utter a word under his breath, and immediately, light erupted from a small dish on the desk beside him. Now that he was in the light, Cerys could see he was packing his pipe full of tobacco. Her heart sank a little. She didn’t particularly want to sit in his study while he smoked; it was bad enough when they were outside.

  “So this… this filth fever,” she said, “is it dangerous?”

  “Potentially fatal.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Of course, that is only if it is left untreated.”

  “And how do I treat it?” she asked.

  Diero said nothing for a moment. He tapped his thumb on the desk to his side, his other hand turning the pipe around slowly between his fingers. “You can’t. Or I should say…  _you_  can’t.”

  “Then I guess I am dead, for I cannot afford to pay someone else to cure me,” she said.

  Diero nodded. “I guess that’s that, then.”

  “Well, thank you for informing me,” she said, and rose to her feet. “I’d best be on my way now.”

  “You seem surprisingly calm, considering I just told you you’re going to die,” Diero said, but he didn’t seem surprised at all. Cerys gave him a wry smile. “Go on, sit down. As you have done me a favour, after all.”

  “I thought clerics were supposed to be kindly men who sought to help others,” she said, taking her seat again. Diero stood up from his chair and sat down beside her on the settee, leaving his pipe on the desk. “I didn’t think they dealt in favours.”

  “And how many clerics do you know, Miss Jones?”

  “Just you.”

  “Then what does that suggest?”

  “Well it  _would_  suggest I am woefully misinformed, Mr Astorio.”

  He nodded. “It would suggest that, yes,” he said, and held his hand out, palm up. Cerys stared at it for a moment, before placing her hand, palm down, on top of his. With a smile, he placed his free hand over hers and closed his eyes. Inhaling sharply, he uttered another word beneath his breath, and Cerys felt a wave of energy wash over her. The chill faded, and the lethargy lessened, although not entirely. All in all, however, she felt considerably better.

  Taking her hand back, she nodded in appreciation. “I must thank you. Dying would have been somewhat inconvenient for my parents.”

  “Is that so?” Diero asked. She shrugged. He stood up, and returned to the arm chair he’d been sitting in. It matched the settee in colour and style. “And why is that?”

  “They’d quite like to move to a city, and they believe Madevic Vargoba is going to make that happen for them,” she explained. Diero snorted. Cerys appreciated that. He said nothing more. Nor did he need to. It was nice to have intelligent conversation once in a while, and though Cerys wasn’t the biggest fan of Diero Astorio’s smoking habits, she could not deny his wit. “You said I’d done you a favour.”

  “Yes. Well, your illness - while it is a mystery in its own right - is also an answer to the question I posed to you, earlier,” he said. “Mara Marsk has been odd, recently. If there is indeed an outbreak of filth fever, and any one of her chickens had been bitten by whatever vermin brought it into this town, that would explain why she brought none of her famous chicken dishes - or even any eggs to sell at the Summer Fête.”

  “Understandable.”

  “What  _isn’t_  understandable is how  _you_  then contracted it. Have you been near Mrs Marsk’s chickens recently?”

  “Only today,” she said. “I nearly tripped over them. She seemed horrified when I mentioned they were out of their coop.” Cerys sighed. She hadn’t wanted to do this. She  _knew_  she’d do this; reevaluating every interaction with Mara, second-guessing everything, looking for anything suspicious.

  “Well, she  _would_  be, if they were infected,” Diero said. “But as Mrs Marsk knew her chickens were sick, she wouldn’t have set them free. And given that was your only interaction with them, something else must have infected you.”

  Cerys shook her head. “I have no recollection of being bitten by any vermin, I’m afraid.”

  “Thus why it is a mystery, Miss Jones,” he said. “And I do love a good mystery, which is why you’ve done me a favour. Things were getting a little boring around here for my tastes,” he added, leaning back in his chair. He lit the tobacco in his pipe and puffed.

  “Well, I’m glad my near-death experience provided you with some entertainment, and I thank you for ensuring it was a  _near_ -death experience,” she said, rising to her feet. She was pleased to find there was no accompanying rush of dizziness this time. “I really should be heading home, now.”

  “Certainly,” Diero said. Straightening his back, he stood up, and headed to the door. He led her out into a cool hallway Cerys recognised as belonging to the local courthouse, and down a corridor towards the front doors. Her bare feet, still a little clammy, left condensated impressions on the polished stone floor. She begged no one would notice. Diero stopped at the front doors to the courthouse. Holding one open, he turned to her with a smile. “Well it is always a pleasure, Miss Jones,” he said.

  Cerys bowed her head, and went to step outside, when she noticed a trolley full of books by the front door, and instead came to a halt. Peering around her to follow her gaze, Diero chuckled.

  “Those are going to the fair tomorrow,” he said. “Did you want a sneak peak before we put them on public sale?”

  “Sale?” she asked. “Why are you selling them?”

  “We need to raise some money to fix one of the cells in the courthouse,” he said. Cerys inclined her head for him to continue. “We arrested a dwarven man a few months ago, and in a drunken rage he managed to  _bend_  the bars to the cell out of shape. We were quoted by a local blacksmith for repairs, but it’s not really in our budget,” he explained.

  “I see,” she said, running her finger over the books. “So these are just…?”

  “Personal books the employees of the court are finished with.”

  Nodding, Cerys picked up one book bound in black leather with faded gold writing along the spine. The letters, she recognised, but the words seemed foreign to her. Cocking her head to one side, she narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t an expert reader - not by any means. She’d only started reading last year, and there was much for her to learn. Even still, she hadn’t thought she was so bad there were words she couldn’t puzzle out.

  “That one caught your interest, has it?” Diero asked, with a knowing smile. Cerys shrugged. “That one came from my house.”

  “Oh, this was yours?” she asked.

  “Yes. A detailed history on the Blackstaff,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid that means very little to me,” she said, smiling somewhat apologetically. “Is it just me, or is the writing on the spine nonsensical?”

  “Neither,” Diero said. “The book is written in Thorass.”

  “Thorass,” Cerys repeated in surprise. “Is it an old book, then?”

  “Quite.” There was a moment of silence. “It’s worth a fair bit, but… something tells me you’ll get far more out of it than most anyone else in this town, so how about we call it ten gold.”

  Cerys snorted and put the book back with some deal of haste. She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s considerably out of my budget for a book I won’t be able to even read.”

  “I’m sure there’s enough in your dowry for the book.”

  “Yes, however that’s my dowry. It’s not exactly spending money.”

  “Learning Thorass is a considerably better investment, Miss Jones. Far better, anyway, than marrying some Gur traveller who dreams big, but has - so far, at least - never taken any steps towards those dreams,” Diero said.

  “Even still.”

  “Even still  _what_ , Cerys?

  Cerys flinched at Diero’s familiarity. She turned her head back to look at the book again, a little more longingly than she’d have liked. “It’s my dowry. I’m not getting married without it.”

  “Come now! A smart woman like you should know better than that,” he said, and let go of the door. It swung shut with a bang, plunging Cerys into a dim, cool shade. “Madevic Vargoba is an idiot, Miss Jones. You are wasted on him. If your parents cannot see that, then you are wasted on your parents, too.”

  “Now, Mr Astorio-” she began, but he straightened his back and towered over her, silencing her.

  “Ten gold, Cerys. Go home. Learn how to read Thorass - like I know you can.”

  “How exactly is that going to help me, Mr Astorio?” she asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Learning how to read in some older language was not going to help her any more than marrying a man who was doomed to die quite painfully at the hands of some goblin bandits would.

  “Because when you return to me, able to read that book… I’ll give you a job,” he said. “Here. In the courthouse. We have need of someone with your… expertise.”

  Cerys scoffed at first, but then she saw he was serious. Her eyes narrowed. “I…” she said, but could not bring herself to turn down his offer. He was right. A job here - in the court - was a far better investment than marrying a nobody destined to be a nobody, and moving to a city to live in a house that would plummet her into crippling debt. “I’m grateful for your healing, Mr Astorio. I am certain I will see you around.”

  Diero seemed to know this wasn’t a refusal. With a smirk, he bowed his head and held the door open for her again, and as much as it loathed her, and as much as she would have preferred to stay in the cool shade, talking about books with a smart man such as Diero Astorio, Cerys stepped out into the late afternoon sun, and headed back home.


	5. Favours Owed

  By the time Cerys made it home, dinner was almost ready. Her father was asleep in his arm chair, and her mother stirred the stewing pot of meat above the fire somewhat absent-mindedly, though she glanced up at the sound of the creaking door.

  “I take it you had a good time with Mr Vargoba,” she said, looking Cerys up and down. Her eyes lingered about Cerys’ face, and for a moment she mused just how messy her hair would have to be for her mother to look so baffled. “What’s that on your forehead?” she asked.

  Cerys hesitated. “I beg your pardon?” She blinked a few times, unsure of what her mother was asking about, before lifting a hand up to her forehead. Her fingers touched cloth and she slammed the door. She would have strong words with Mr Astorio when next they met. Letting her leave the courthouse with the damp cloth still stuck to her face was nothing shy of cruel.

  “Well, Cerys?” her mother asked.

  “Well, mother. That would be a damp cloth.” 

  “And why in the world is there a damp cloth stuck to your forehead, Cerys?”

  Cerys nodded. That was indeed a good question. “You see, mother, I did  _not_ , in fact, have a  _good time_  with Mr Vargoba, for within the hour I had passed out no fewer than two times.”

  “Oh please, Cerys. Tell me you didn’t make a fuss!” Ann gasped, letting go of her wooden spoon to bring her hands up to her face in a manner Cerys deemed - rather frustratingly, mind - for the sole purpose of making a fuss of her own.

  “Mother, need I repeat myself? I was unconscious. If a fuss was made, I promise you now, it was certainly not of  _my_  doing,” she said. With a great of haste, she peeled the cloth from her forehead and dropped it on the wooden table. Ann followed the motion with her eyes, before looking at Cerys with a great deal of disappointment. “Mother, please! I did not  _choose_  to faint.”

  “Well… did you at least look… proper?” she asked.

“I…  _what_?”

  “Did you at least look dainty?” she asked. Cerys did not respond. “Then… feminine? As you passed out, and such. Did you at least faint in a way that means Mr Vargoba still wishes to marry you, dear?”

  Cerys drew breath, which she promptly choked on. Lip curling, she sat down opposite her mother and mouthed the start of countless words before settling into a perturbed expression. “Well, I…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well I don’t rightly know, mother. I was - as previously mentioned -  _unconscious_ ,” Cerys said running a hand through her hair, pulling her already messy bun loose. “I woke up in Mr Astorio’s study.”

  “That doesn’t  _sound_  very proper, Cerys.”

  “He is a cleric and a  _lawman_  mother, I highly doubt he would do anything untoward,” she said in a groan, rolling her eyes. “Besides, quite frankly, that is not the point. The point is, according to Mr Astorio it was not the heat which caused me to faint, but rather it wasnone other than  _filth fever_.”

  “I’m sorry,  _what_?” her mother asked.

  “Oh indeed,” Cerys remarked, “and Mr Astorio would like to get to the bottom of it all.”

  “Oh, please, Cerys. Don’t get involved,” her mother begged. “I am sure Mr Astorio is a lovely man - a truly lovely man - but I beg of you, don’t get caught up in another of his crazy schemes.”

  “ _Crazy schemes_ , mother? Might I remind you it was, in fact, Mr Astorio who solved the mysterious hydrangea heist of '79,” Cerys said, planting her hand against the table, perhaps a little more aggressively than her mother would have liked. Ann’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing.

  Turning from Cerys, she put her spoon back into the stew and resumed stirring. Cerys’ stomach rumbled. One meagre scoop of gelato hadn’t been sufficient lunch.

  “Wake your father up,” Ann said, gesturing with her free hand over to the sleeping form of Igor. His stomach rose and fell with each steady breath, but as if on cue, he snorted and attempted to roll onto his side. The arms of the chair saved him from falling to the floor and he awoke with a start.

  “He’s up,” Cerys said as he sat upright, glaring groggily over his shoulder. “Dinner is ready,” she explained to him, and he nodded, features still screwed up.

  He pulled himself to his feet, though it took a lot of his effort. The weight of his round stomach made it somewhat difficult for him to push himself out of where he’d wedged himself into his chair. His cheeks were rosier than usual. Cerys wondered if she were perhaps not the only one to have contracted filth fever. She supposed it was not only possible, but likely even probably. They could not afford the cost of clerical healing and they could  _certainly_  not afford the cost of  _two_  castings of such a spell.

  Shuffling to the side to make room for her father to sit down on the bench, Cerys turned her gaze to her mother. Her mother  _looked_  a little flushed, but she’d been sat beside the fire. It was, therefore, hard to tell if she looked  _sickly_  or merely warm. Furthermore, she did not know if she could reacquire the disease. If so, there was nothing that could be done.

  She inhaled, her breath catching in her chest. Her father must have noticed something was amiss with her, for he placed a hand upon her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Cerys was surprised by his uncharacteristic behaviour.

  “Don’t worry, love. There will be other men. Ones who will bring you out of that bookish shell of yours.”

  “Igor!” Ann hissed, placing bowls onto the table. “Don’t be daft! Of  _course_  Mr Vargoba likes our Cerys! He’s a gentleman, he is! And he’s not such a fool that he can’t see past our darling child’s… minor flaws.”

  Cerys narrowed her eyes, lips parted. “Liking books isn’t a… it’s not… I…” She could not find the words to express her utter disbelief, and instead settled for a pout. Her mother nodded with possibly the falsest smile Cerys had witnessed in her entire life.

  She remained silent, and focused on the unmistakably wet sound of a meal composed of mostly water, with the intermittent splish - not quite loud enough to be a splash - of the occasional crumb - not quite large enough to be a chunk - of lamb. As her mother pushed the bowl towards her, she saw she was right.

  “You know,” she said. “Adventuring is a very  _dangerous_  occupation.”

  “Of course,” Ann groaned with an exasperated sigh. “You’d know all about adventuring wouldn’t you, Cerys? Famed adventurer: Cerys Jones,” she added, throwing a glare across the table.

  Cerys’ jaw clenched, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. “Well, in the book I’ve been reading-”

  “Oh, I’ve had it!” Igor snapped. “This book has you thinking you’re an expert on every single little thing in the world, Cerys!”

  “I don’t. I just-”

  “No, listen here, girl,” he said. “Whoever wrote that book of yours isn’t an adventurer, is he?”

  “ _She_ , and no, but-”

  “Then he knows nothing more about adventuring than you do!”

  “Well,  _she’s_  dedicated her life to chronicling the life of Drizzt Do’Urden, so I’d say she’s probably an expert on him-”

  “And of course, he’s every adventurer, of course. Silly us. Do you hear that, Ann? Our daughter thinks she’s marrying one of those filthy drow.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying, adventuring is dangerous. If Mr Vargoba perishes, how do you plan to pay for the house in Waterdeep.”

  “No one said it had to Waterdeep! It could be Neverwinter,” Igor said.

  Ann nodded. “Or Baldur’s Gate. That’s another option.”

  Groaning, Cerys let her hands ball into fists. “That’s irrelevant! That’s not the point! Regardless of where we live, how are we going to afford it if Mr Vargoba dies?” she demanded.

  Taken aback by their daughter’s sudden outburst, both Igor and Ann leaned away from Cerys, shaking their heads in disapproval.

  “Where is all of this defiance coming from, Cerys?” Igor asked.

  “Oh, she can’t be blamed, Igor,” Ann said. Cerys flinched, bewildered by her mother’s defence of her. “The poor girl has been taken by illness. Apparently, Mr Astorio had to treat her today for filth fever!”

  Igor’s eyes widened, though the anger vanished from his face. “Heavens! Cerys, are you alright?” he asked. Cerys sighed and shook her head.

  “I’m fine,” she said quietly, and turned her attention to the unappetising bowl of watered-down lamb-flavoured water before her. Dipping a spoon into the liquid, she fished out one small piece of lamb and lifted it to her mouth. She swallowed without chewing. There wasn’t enough of it  _to_  chew.

  “Yes, the poor girl fainted in front of the whole village!”

  Cerys hadn’t said that, but she cared not to disagree. It didn’t matter all that much. Her mother would have exaggerated anyway.

  “That sounds awful.”

  “I am only grateful Mr Vargoba was there. If she’d been alone, I dare not think of what might have happened to our poor daughter!”

  Cerys thought she ought to mention of how she’d read cityfolk were more likely to ignore a sickened person than small town folk such as those from secomber, but they’d only ask why she thought she had to authority to speak on behalf of city folk from a city she’d never visited.

  She finished her meal in silence, attempting to drown out the sound of her parents speaking of her as though she were not present, with her own thoughts. She waited for a natural pause in the conversation before clearing her throat.

  “Mr Astorio was kind enough to use his magic to aid me,” she said.

  “How ever will we afford that?” Igor asked Ann, though it was clear neither of them had the answer.

  “He did not charge me,” Cerys said. “He did it in exchange for a favour.”

  “A favour?” Ann asked. “What kind of a favour?” Cerys could see the fear in her eyes, that her daughter might be forced to do something improper. She could not fathom why her mother thought so poorly of Mr Astorio, when the man had never been anything but polite to everyone he happened upon.

  “Yes,” Cerys said, pausing to give herself a moment to think. “I ought to go find out exactly the nature of how I might assist him.” Sliding out from the bench, she rose to her feet, and brushed herself down, straightening out the creases in her dress. She pulled her hair back up into its messy bun.

  “It’s rather late, don’t you think, dear?” her mother asked.

Cerys glanced out the window, at the pig sty where Wilmorn lay sleeping in the low sun of the evening. “It’s still light,” she said. “I’ll be back before long, and I’d rather not leave any favours owed.   That would be rather embarrassing,” she said, turning her head to give her mother a pointed look, “don’t you think?”

  Ann recoiled and averted her gaze. Bowing her head in defeat, she lifted a skinny wrist to point to a pair of scuffed leather boots by the door, falling apart in several places. “Don’t forget your shoes, dear,” she said. Cerys blinked. “You forgot them earlier.”

  Cerys was surprised her mother had noticed, but bowed her head with a smile all the same. “Thank you for reminding me,” she said, and slipped her feet into the boots. Not bothering with the laces, she grabbed a knitted shawl from a hook on the back of the door, and stepped out into the cool evening.


	6. Gold in Pocket

  Cerys supposed, at this time of night, Diero Astorio would most likely be at home, and while she was loathe to invoke the town to gossip about why she was headed to an older man's home only hours after she had been alone with him in his study, she still felt compelled to seek treatment for her family.

  She supposed she could have waited to see for certain if her parents were actually sick, but she knew she could not afford to gamble with their lives. And so, despite the the occasional sympathetic glance from someone who had no doubt seen her collapse - or at least, her unconscious body being escorted from the pavilion to the courthouse - she headed onwards to Diero's house.

  Diero lived alone in a beautiful thatched cottage, with a clematis that climbed the side, framing his windows and their cornflower blue shutters. He still kept a bed of hydrangeas planted outside - a bold move, so Cerys thought, considering he had been accused of stealing Arveen Evenwood's hydrangeas right before the annual flower show, some years earlier. Of course, he had solved the mystery of who had in fact stolen her flowers, and he even cited it as the event that had inspired his love of mysteries. However, there were some who found it entirely too convenient he had solved the mystery, given he was the one being accused of the theft in the first place.

  Extending her hand out, Cerys used the beautiful iron rung on the front of Diero's door to knock three times, before waiting for him to answer. There was a brief moment of silence, in which Cerys worried he might not be home yet, and she'd have to walk to the other side of town and simply hope she would not miss him as he left the courthouse. Such worries were silenced, however, when the door opened to reveal Diero's curious blue eyes.

  "Well, Miss Jones. That was quick," he said. "I take it you've reconsidered my offer."

  Cerys attempted a smile. She failed. Bowing her head, she took a deep breath before looking him in the eye. "I'm afraid I have not the time to consider any offers, as I fear my parents may also be afflicted with the filth fever."

  Diero grunted, considering her words for a moment. "It's rather likely, if I am honest," he said, and Cerys sighed. She'd hoped he wouldn't say that. "While it is not contagious in the same way other illnesses are, such as the common cold, I am struggling to find a way only you would have been infected, and not your parents."

  "I am still struggling to understand how any of us could have been infected, when I certainly have not been bitten by any vermin or... anything, for that matter," Cerys said.

  "What about your father's pigs, Miss Jones?" he asked, and Cerys paused. That was a possibility. It was possible one of the pigs may have been bitten, but even still, considering the animal would have been cooked before it was eaten, that should have dealt with the disease, surely.

  "Were that the case, Mr Astorio, half the town would be afflicted by now," she said. "After all, since my father took home gold from the annual-"

  "The pig agility contest, you're right!" Diero gasped. "And he narrowly snatched that win from the clutches of none other than Mrs Greenbottle," he added.

  "So, you think Mrs Greenbottle was angry enough to try and kill me and my family?" Cerys asked. "Besides, I hardly think that's as important as where she would even acquire the means to infect any of us," she added, before shaking her head. "And that's not why I'm here. I'm here because my family is very likely sick, and you are the only man I know capable of helping us."

  "Ah, Miss Jones, I thought you would be more excited at the prospect of this mystery," Diero said, shaking his head, his disappointment evident.

  Cerys sighed. It mattered not how interested she was in any mystery of any sort. Solving the mystery would not cure her family. "How much is it going to cost us for treatment?" she asked.

  Diero looked her up and down, as if gauging just how many - or few - coins might clatter to the floor were he to turn her upside down and shake her. She took a half-step away.

  "The church generally charges forty gold for casting such a spell."

  Cerys' heart skipped a beat. "Forty gold-" she began to say, but Diero interrupted her.

  "Each," he said. "Forty gold each."

  The two of them stood in stunned silence. Closing her eyes, Cerys tried to wrap her head around how she might even begin to acquire such a large quantity of gold. Her lips parted as she searched for the words to beg him to reduce the price, but she did not know the man well enough to beg him, and nor did she have the money even if he did reduce the cost.

  "I..." She opened her eyes. "I... You wouldn't let them die, Mr Astorio... would you?" she asked, and he scoffed. "You saved me in exchange for a favour. Is there something else I might do for you in exchange for this help?"

  "I'm sure we could call it thirty gold each," he said. This did nothing to ease the tension in her body. Folding her arms, she bent forwards ever so slightly and shook her head.

  "I just... can't. We'll... There's just no way... We're... That kind of money just isn't... I..." Her heartbeat sped up, thrashing violently against her ribcage. Her breath felt short and the world span, and for a moment she was worried she had not recovered from her illness at all, but Diero put a hand on her shoulder, distracting her from her panic. Several deep breaths later, she was in disbelief. "Why treat me, but not my parents, Mr Astorio?"

  "I told you, Miss Jones. I am not a kind man. Saving your life is of benefit to me, because I believe you to be a bright young woman who would be an asset to our courthouse," he said. "Your parents? I am sure they are wonderful parents, however they are simply pig farmers, and pig farmers are essentially all the same. They will save no lives, they will help no one. Should they die, we will still have pigs." He paused for breath. Cerys found herself short of it. "You, on the other hand... You - in the right role - in the right career - you will make a difference to this town, and to the lives of everyone who steps through the doors to our humble courthouse."

    "I won't be doing anything if my parents are dead," she whispered. Diero Astorio was not sure if this were a threat or simply a fear, and nor was Cerys. Pressing her lips together, she stared at him, willing for him to change his mind.

  He stayed quiet a moment, his face in deep thought. After an entirely too long silence, he finally spoke. "I could loan you the money," he said.

  "I could not afford to pay you back," Cerys said. "You would die long before our debt was squared."

  Diero chuckled. With a smirk, he inclined his head towards her. "Not if it came out of your wages."

  "I... pardon?"

  "If you were - to say - learn Thorass, there would be a job for you. A well-paid job at that. If we said the ten gold for the book was a deposit towards the swift recovery of your parents, you would then owe me fifty gold," he said, before adding, "fifty gold that you would slowly pay back through your wages."

  Cerys was struck dumb. He wasn't giving her much of a choice. "I..."

  "What other option do you have, Miss Jones?"

  "You understand this is not my money to agree to part with, Mr Astorio," she said.

  "Nor is it your sickness you are parting with it to cure," he said. "And quite frankly, ten gold out of your parents' pockets to treat filth fever is a bargain. You will be paying for the majority of their treatment, I shan't think they would feel in any position to complain about that."

  Cerys snorted. "It's obvious you have never met my parents, then."

  "You are not wrong," he said. "You are the only one, out of us two, who knows your parents and what is best for them. If you would prefer they succumb to this disease, leaving you with no option other than to marry a man you will never love, and who frankly is too stupid to ever appreciate what you have to offer, then so be it. That is your prerogative, Miss Jones."

  "Put like that, it sounds I don't have much of a choice," she said, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  "Think on it, Cerys," he said. "Those books go on sale tomorrow morning, and I cannot promise the one you had your eye on will be still be there when the day comes to an end."

  Cerys nodded in understanding, though she did not understand how a man could sit there and condemn her parents to death. "I will consider it," she said, "on one condition."

  "I'd best hear it, then."

  "Please don't tell anyone that any of us were sick. It would ruin their business, and no wage I make could make up for the loss of their farm - and certainly, there is nothing in this world that could make up for being treated as a pariah," she said.

  With a slow nod, Diero smiled - almost sympathetically - and bowed his head. "Of course, Miss Jones," he agreed. "Well... while this was an enlightening chat, the sun is due to set, and I would bid you get home before the nightfall," he said, and took a step backwards. He closed the door half way, stopping to add, "particularly as you will need your sleep if you wish to get up early and make any purchases." With that, he closed the door, leaving Cerys to stand out in the crimson glow of the setting sun.

  There was a twist in her gut, and she wasn't entirely sure there would be a happy outcome to any of this. Regardless, her parents well being came first. Money... marriage... perhaps those things would have to wait, and perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing.

  Taking in a deep breath of the crisp evening air, Cerys shook her head and turned around to trudge back across the green, onto the path, and all the way home. The sun was a sliver of gold on the horizon by the time she made it back, though she had walked rather sluggishly.

  As she opened the door, and was hit with a wave of warmth from the hearth, she noticed her father asleep, once more, in his chair. Her mother's snores from the bed upstairs rumbled through the ceiling, and despite their shortcomings, Cerys was struck with how she did love them. She did not know how she would cope if anything were to happen to them.

  Sighing, she took a quick, cursory glance around the room, and spied the pouch of gold poking out of a copper pan on one of the shelves above the fireplace. She swallowed hard and closed the door behind her, as quietly as she could manage, before slipping her shoes from her feet and tip toeing over to the shelves.


	7. A Grave Misunderstanding

  Cerys awoke in the morning to the sound of her mother’s anguished wails. It was a rather startling awakening, and her stomach turned over, fearful her parents had discovered their money had been stolen. Sitting up in bed, she realised the sun was only just rising, the sky a wash of pale blue, littered with blush clouds. There was no way her mother would have even started cooking yet.

  It was then, that it occurred to her, she hadn’t heard her father come up the stairs last night. Stomach twisting into a knot, she clambered out of bed, and flew down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Her gaze landed upon the armchair, where her father lay unmoving. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she rushed to his side, and grabbed his hand.

  “Father?”

  Igor woke up with a splutter and a start, and Cerys sighed in relief. But that didn’t explain her mother’s scream, or why the woman was still sobbing. Igor’s olive eyes narrowed at the sound, before widening. He wriggled out of the clutches of his too-small armchair, and waddled towards the ajar front door, with Cerys hot on his heels.

  Grabbing the shawl from the back of the door, Igor threw it to Cerys, who wrapped it around herself and followed him outside. They headed around the side of the house, where they found Ann on her knees in the paddock, clutching the still, lifeless body of Wilmorn.

  “What happened?” Igor demanded, joining his wife by her side. Cerys stopped in her tracks. She knew exactly what had happened.

  “I don’t… I don’t know,” Ann managed to say between wrangled sobs. “I don’t know! He won’t move!”

  “Do you think it was the heat?”

  “Then why are none of the others dead?”

  Cerys turned her gaze from her parents, and looked to the village centre, where she could see the occasional local in the distance groggily meandering, starting to put the stalls out for the second day of the Summer Fete. She bit her lip. It seemed she had no choice. Swallowing her uncertainty, she headed back around the stone cottage, and through the front door, before heading up to her room to get dressed.

  She threw on her clothes with a great deal of haste, and did not stop to so much as brush her dress down - nor did she pull her hair up into a bun, however messy it often was. Hiding the bag of gold coins beneath her shawl, she hurried back down the stairs, and slipped her feet into her boots. As she left the house, she could still hear the echoes of her parents mourning their beloved Wilmorn.

  Cerys sighed. He would be missed, certainly - but not as much as she would miss her parents were they to succumb to illness or disease. And yet, she battled with herself, for she knew it would break their hearts when they found out she had stolen the dowry money for a book she could not even read - and they  _would_  find out.

  She closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath, willing her feet to move. Just as she was about to give up and turn back around, she put one foot forward, and the other followed with a great deal more ease.

  The courthouse was quiet, the doors still locked when she arrived and it wasn’t until the sun was a great deal higher in the sky before Arveen Evenwood arrived to unhook the butter yellow shutters and fasten them open, allowing light to pour through the windows into the courthouse. She nodded to Cerys as she unlocked the front door.

  “Is everything quite alright, Miss Jones?”

  “It’s…” Cerys considered - for the briefest of moments - telling her the truth, but then thought better of it and smiled somewhat half-heartedly. “It’s fine. I am just waiting on Mr Astorio. Have you seen him?”

  “Mr Astorio?” Arveen asked. “Why… not this morning, and I don’t think I shall be seeing him until tomorrow, now.”

  “Tomorrow?” Cerys shook her head. “Doesn’t he have to come here to collect the book trolley?” she asked.

  “Oh.” Arveen paused, considering Cerys’ words for a few seconds. Pushing the door open, she peered inside and shook her head. “The trolley isn’t here. He  _did_  say, last night, he would come early to take the books to the fair,” she explained.

  Cerys sighed. It would have been nice for Diero to have mentioned that to her. She was beginning to believe him, about how he was anything but a  _kind_  man. Nodding her head, Cerys took a step away from the courthouse.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Ms Evenwood,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “Are you sure you are quite well, Miss Jones?” Arveen asked. “You look a little…”

  “I am fine, I assure you. I will be better when I find Mr Astorio, though,” she said, and with that, she headed for the coloured pavilions in the village centre.

  By the time Cerys found her way to where everything was happening, it was - well and truly -  _happening_. Although not quite as busy as it had been late yesterday morning, Cerys still found it difficult to push her way through the bustling crowd. And it was  _busy_.

  It took a moment of searching around, but eventually she did manage to catch sight of Diero Astorio’s brown hair from behind. She almost called out to him, but somehow managed to retain composure, as she squeezed through the crowd. She noticed a particularly vile smell coming from Grim Buckman and wondered, for a moment, if he were quite well, but then she recalled Falkrun Fireforge had set up a stall with her famous curry yesterday, and instead, Cerys merely felt sick at the noxious odour.

  After an elbow to the shoulder and a particularly heavy boot crushing her toes, she finally made it to the trolley full of carts. Diero Astorio stood, with his back to Cerys, leant over a table, scrawling something down on a piece of parchment. The scratch of his pen took Cerys out of the moment, and for a moment, she pictured herself with that pen in hand, writing something suitably important down. She smiled, a faint smile, but a smile nonetheless, and dropped the coin purse on the table beside Diero.

  The man in question jumped with a start, and turned his head to look at Cerys. For a second he looked confused, but then the smile crept onto his face, and he nodded, picking up the pouch and pouring its contents onto the table. He counted out the ten gold and returned the two gold, six silver, and one copper back into the pouch before handing it back to her. She took it from him, with trembling fingers, and wet her lips.

  “You’ve made the right choice, Miss Jones” he said.

  “Mr Astorio, there  _was_ no choice,” she responded, and he nodded in understanding before turning to the trolley. He plucked the book, with its thick leather cover and faded gold writing, from where it rested between two far slimmer books - one red, one brown - and turned to face Cerys. She lifted her hands, and he placed it down in her grasp.

  “I should go pay your parents a visit,” he said, bowing his head.

  Cerys nodded in appreciation. “I thank you, Mr Astorio. I fear for them. My father’s beloved pig Wilmorn passed.”

  “The pig?”

  Cerys nodded again, this time with conviction. “I thought about what you said last night. About Mrs Greenbottle.”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you not think it is entirely too convenient that my father’s pig dies the day after I pass out - afflicted by filth fever?” she asked. “And yet, none of our other pigs are sick - or the town would be sick by now,” she added. “The only common thing I can think of is that we all ate the cake - the prize for winning the pig agility.”

  Diero gasped. “The agility contest that saw gold snatched from the clutches of Mrs Greenbottle, your father’s rival.”

  “She was very rude to me yesterday,” Cerys said. “It’s worth thinking about, at the very least.”

  “Worth thinking about, to who? To you, or to me?”

  “You like mysteries, and I like being alive,” she said, cocking a brow. “I don’t care for which of us gets to the bottom of this first, so long as one of us does.”

  “Then how about we work together, Miss Jones?” Diero asked. Cerys nodded.

  “I would very much like that,” she said.

  “Then I look forward to working with you.” He paused to take in her abnormally dishevelled appearance, before smiling. “You should go home and neaten yourself up. If your mother finds out you were seen in public looking so… Well… I can cure her disease,” he paused to chuckle, shaking his head, “but I can’t bring her back if she has a heart attack.”

  Cerys snorted and nodded in agreement. “Then I will be seeing you later. We  _will_  get to the bottom of this. Something about this filth fever does not feel so innocent, and when I find out who did this - when I find out who risked the lives of my parents, and took the life of their beloved pig, Wilmorn… I will only be too happy to see them face justice.”

  With a sigh, Diero nodded. “If you are right, and this is indeed a crime, then this is attempted murder, and justice will be deserved,” he said. “We will discuss this after the Summer Fête. Tomorrow, come meet me at the courthouse, and we will start the necessary work to uncover the culprit. For now, go home, get dressed  _properly_ , and enjoy yourself, Cerys.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I will be around shortly to see to your parents.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “And learn to read that book!”

  “Of course,” she said. “After all… I just spent my dowry on it.”

  There was a horrified gasp from behind her - a gasp that made her blood run cold. “You did  _what_?”

  Grimacing, Cerys turned around to face Madevic Vargoba, her lips drawn. There was really no way to explain this to him. Closing her eyes, she drew breath, desperately trying to give herself an additional few seconds with which to come up with an excuse, but none came to mind, and nor did Madevic seem keen on waiting for one.

  “How irresponsible are you?” he asked, his features twisting with rage. His handsome brown eyes widened, causing him to look very slightly less handsome.

  “Well, if you just let me explain-” she tried to say, but he was already turning around. He grabbed her by the wrist, gripping tightly. She hissed in pain as he pulled her, starting towards the farm. Her stomach turned over. “Mr Vargoba, let go!”

  He did not, and Cerys was left to stare over her shoulder at Diero. The lawman drew in a deep breath and shook his head in disappointment, as if he’d suspected Madevic’s response would have been like this, but had not wished to say anything. Cerys looked back towards Madevic, and tried to free her own hand.

  Madevic’s grip remained tight, and despite Cerys’ struggle to liberate herself from his tight grip, she did not succeed. Before she knew it, they were at the door to her parent’s cottage, and Madevic was hammering with such force, she worried for the door’s integrity. As he continued to slam his fist upon the door, Cerys panicked, and in that moment of panic she thumped him on the head with the book in her free hand.

  Madevic’s body jerked forwards. His head collided with the door with the most unsettling thud, and Cerys’ mouth lingered open in horror. He did, however, finally let go of her hand, and she pulled her wrist back, red and sore, holding it close to her chest. Madevic turned around to stare down at her.

  “What is so wrong with you?” he asked. “First, you waste money on  _that_  useless thing!”

  “It is not a useless thing, Mr Vargoba! It’s a book in Thorass that will-”

  “What in the world is  _Thorass_?”

  “Well, it is a language I am going to learn-”

  “You bought a book you cannot  _read_?”

  Cerys didn’t have an answer to that. Well, actually she did. Only, that answer was the affirmative, and she did not much like the idea of agreeing with him at this point.

  “Yet.”

  “ _What_?”

  “It is a book I cannot  _yet_  read. However, I am certain with some time, I will-”

  The door swung inwards, distracting both Cerys and Madevic Vargoba, and revealing the mottled, tear-stained face of Ann Jones.

  “What is happening out here?” she asked. Cerys thought that for a sick woman, she looked awfully astute, and there was a small part of her that wondered if she had been duped by Diero Astorio, but beyond her mother, wheezing in the armchair was her father, Igor, and he did  _not_ look well. She averted her gaze.

  “I’ll tell you what is happening out here,” Madevic growled. “Your daughter is irresponsible, and childish!”

  “If you think I’m going to let you talk about my very own daughter in such a way, Mr Vargoba-” she said, then noticed the very empty coin purse and the book. “Cerys,” she hissed. “What did you do?”

  “What  _did_  you do, Cerys?” Madevic asked, mockingly.

  Cerys straightened her back and brushed herself down. “I made a far better investment than marrying Mr Vargoba here,” she said, “and he is more than a tad bitter. What a shame.”

  “Oh, Cerys… you  _didn’t_ ,” Ann half-wept, shaking her head. She brought her hands up to cover her mouth and leaned against the door. Cerys clenched her jaw and nodded. Ann turned her attention instead to Madevic. Wrapping her arms around herself, she struggled for words. “Mr Vargoba, I beg of you… I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. Cerys will take the book back - it’s fine.”

  “I’m not taking this book anywhere, mother.”

  “Cerys, be quiet! Mr Vargoba, it’s fine - there’s nothing wrong that can’t be fixed.”

  Madevic snorted, shaking his head. “Your daughter is irresponsible. I am not going to marry a  _girl_  whose priorities are so unbelievably skewed.”

  Cerys snorted. She would have told him of the filth fever, if only he’d given her a chance instead of making wild assumptions and hurting her, whilst dragging her across the field. He would have understood her priorities, then. But she did not care to explain herself to him, and she especially did not want to in front of her parents.

  “Mr Vargoba, please!” her mother begged. Madevic wasn’t listening. Squaring up to Cerys, he loomed over her, glowering down at her. She stared back at him, refusing to back down. Eventually, he shook his head, and grunting in apparent disgust, brushed past her, heading back towards the distant pavilions.

  Ann stood, staring at Cerys in silence. Cerys said nothing. With a sigh, Ann closed the door, leaving Cerys stood outside in the warm summer morning. She remained there for a few minutes, her gaze cast down at the dewy grass. Part of her wanted to go after Madevic to explain to him just how wrong he was. Another part of her didn’t see why she should have to justify herself to him. Furthermore, this way she did not have to marry him. Taking a deep breath, she backed away from the wooden front door.


	8. Area of Expertise

  Cerys passed the sty where Wilmorn had lay less than an hour ago. In the cold light of the morning, the empty sty looked more like a graveyard than a home. She supposed the other pigs were likely still asleep in the barn. She’d miss Wilmorn - not as much as her parents would, obviously, but she’d felt  _some_  sentimental attachment to the pig.

  Heading around to the door to the barn, she slid the loose plank to the left of the door aside, and slid inside. The familiar snore of the sleeping pigs was almost reassuring, but Cerys wondered if it would stay that way.

  The barn was a large building, and yet despite its impressive size, both Ann and Igor had found a way to fill it with needless clutter. The clutter took up the entirety of the balcony, but Cerys had burrowed a hole between the sacks of pig feed, and made a small bed where she had often hid as a child, to escape the unsilenceable volume of the outside world. Last year, she had broken away a little of the wood to let the light through so that she could read in peace.

  With the book lodged under her arm, she set about climbing the ladder to the balcony. She wasn’t the nimblest of women, but with skill that comes only with practise, she managed to clamber up, and pull herself onto the sacks. There was not a lot of headroom up on the balcony, but Cerys was not a tall woman - not one soul in her family ever had been, according to both her parents.

  Crawling over to the back of the barn, Cerys found the small stream of light streaming through the rafters, and rolled into her place, her stomach against the burlap. The light struck the front of the dark, leather cover, and with her finger, she traced over a faint embossment on the cover she had not seen before.

  Flipping the cover, and peeling back the first page, she stared down at a jumble of letters she recognised, forming words she felt she ought to know. Parts of the text seemed familiar enough, but she knew this was going to take time - a long time, and that was time she did not have.

  She flicked through the pages, staring at them with some degree of intensity, as if that might somehow enlighten her, but she found no answers, only a panicked despair clawing at the inside of her throat, her breath growing thin.

  After wasting a sufficient amount of time on a book she could not read, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the rafters. The light shone into her eye, illuminating a sliver of her face. She sighed and opened the book again, placing it over her face to blot out the sun. The rattle of the barn door drew her from her daze, and she sat up best she could beneath the low ceiling. Igor stepped into the barn, Ann in tow.

  “And that’s when Madevic stormed off,” her mother said. Cerys had not heard the muffled voices of conversation, and wondered how long they’d been outside the barn. Ann shook her head, red hair falling loose from its ribbon. “Well? Say something Igor!”

  Igor sighed. Making his way to the door that led to the stye, he shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Anything.”

  “I don’t know what  _you_  want me to say.”

  “She’s obviously not well! What woman would turn down a handsome man like Madevic Vargoba, and spend all the money her family has… on a  _book_!”

  Igor shrugged again. He pulled the bolt on the door, allowing it to swing open, letting loose the resounding echo into the outside world. “Did you actually like him? Did you really want to move to Waterdeep? It’s far. We wouldn’t have been able to take Wilmorn with us, you know.”

  “Well, that no longer matters… does it?” Ann asked in a trembling voice.

  Igor stopped moving, his shoulders hunched. Shaking his head, he leaned against the barn doors. The pigs filed out into their paddock, leaving behind only the persisting stench of their flatulence.

  Ann leaned back against the wall, and rested her head. With a sigh, she turned to leave. “You need to talk to her,” she said. “Find out what’s got into that pretty little head of hers, Igor. Before she ruins  _everything_.”

  With that, Ann stalked out of the barn, leaving Igor to remain slumped against the open barn doors. He took a deep breath, and looked up, right at Cerys, who attempted to duck down again, but it was too late. He had already seen her.

  “She’s really upset, Cerys,” he said. Cerys stared down at him and shrugged. “Don’t just shrug! You should care.”

  “She doesn’t understand.”

  “You didn’t like Madevic? You should have just said so,” he said in a grumble. Cerys sighed and shook her head. “Then what?”

  “I just-”

  “Don’t tell me that a book was honestly more important than our money.”

  Cerys couldn’t answer. In a way, it was. Or at least, it  _would_  be. Igor shook his head in disappointment. He straightened his back, placing a hand upon the scuffed wood of the barn to brace himself.

  “Wilmorn,” he said, shakily. “He’s…”

  “I know,” Cerys said. “I’m sorry about Wilmorn.”

  “Oh… don’t be. It’s not your fault. I just wish I knew what was wrong with him.” He took another deep breath, and pulled loose the collar of his tunic, flapping it about to create a breeze.

  “Are you feeling well?” Cerys asked. Igor looked up at her and forced a smile.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just a warm morning is all,” he said. Cerys knew this to not be true. It was not that warm of a morning. “Are you staying up there, or coming down?”

  “I’ll stay,” she said.

  Igor scoffed. “Of course you are. It’d be too much for any god to bless me with a daughter who actually  _does_  anything,” he said, and snorted.

  Cerys cocked a brow, and raised her book up for him to see. “Who says I am not doing anything?” she asked. “I’m reading.”

  With a nod, Igor headed for the ladder. “Pass me some feed,” he said, reaching up. Cerys put the book down, and grabbed a half-filled bag of feed. “So what’s this book about, hm? What was so worth ruining our future over?”

  She passed the burlap sack down to her father, and shuffled back over to the book. “It’s about something called the Blackstaff,” she said.

  Igor rolled his eyes, and made his way over to the open door leading to the paddock. “Sounds like a load of nonsense to me. Another one of your silly adventurers?” he asked.

  “Honestly? I’m not quite sure  _what_  it is about. I am not familiar with Thorass,” she said. He had expected a poor reaction, and so she was not surprised when her father threw the sack to the ground, before spinning around to glare at her. “I’m going to  _learn_ , though,” she added hastily.

  He was not impressed. “You spent your dowry on a book you can’t even read. Cerys… I… your mother is right. You’re not well.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just…”

  “We can find you someone to talk to,” he said. “That lawman - you like him, right?” 

  Cerys sighed and bowed her head. “I have already  _talked_  to Mr Astorio,” she said. “He is the one who convinced me to buy the book,” she added. “He said when I learn to read Thorass, there will be a job for me at the courthouse.”

  Igor stared at his daughter, evidently unsure of what to make of what she had said. After entirely too long a moment, he turned his attention to his feet, his brow furrowed in deep thought, before nodding slowly.

  “Do you know what my father was, Cerys?”

  “ _What_?”

  “He was a farmer. That’s what he was,” Igor said. “And do you know what his father was? His father was a farmer, too. And can you guess what  _his_  father was?”

  “I’m going to hazard a guess and go with ' _a farmer_ ',” she said.

  “Enough of that sass. He was a farmer - a proud farmer. And do you know what? Your mother’s family were farmers, too.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “ _Okay and_  that was enough for us. We didn’t dream big of books and courthouses and dinners with the bloomin’ aristocracy! Next thing you know you’ll be trying to cosy up to Lord Neverember!”

  “I’m sorry…  _what_? Lord… Where is this coming from?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed. Sitting cross-legged, she placed the book in her lap, and took a deep breath, hoping the sight of her controlled breathing would remind her father to do the same and calm down, himself.

  “Your mother and I… we’re not the perfect parents, Cerys. I know you hate us for that, but we tried!”

  “I don’t hate anyone, I just-”

  “And I know you think you’re better than all this, but just remember… in their fancy little manors, with their fancy servants… someone’s still got to breed the damn pigs, Cerys! Without  _us_  they’d all starve to death, because they’ve never lifted a finger in their damn lives!”

  “By Lathander’s grace. Father, what are you even talking about?” she asked. “This feels a lot less like it’s about me, and a lot more like it’s about some deep-seated issues you’ve been harbouring for a long time.”

  “They’re no better than us.  _You’re_  no better than  _this_.”

  Cerys shrugged. “If that’s what you think I’m saying… I mean… alright?”

  “I’m half-tempted to go find that blasted Diero Astorio and give him a piece of my mind!” he growled.

  Nodding, Cerys flipped open the cover of the book once more. “You  _should_. Then, you will either change his mind, or he will put yours at ease. A little diplomacy goes a long way. Just take the sour political situation of-”

  “And what would  _you_  know about politics, Cerys?”

  “Well, nothing - I just read in my book about Drizzt-”

  “Oh, and that makes you an expert, does it?”

  She clenched her jaw, glowering down at the page of scrambled letters in her lap. Closing her eyes, she took and deep breath and shook her head. “ _No_ , father.  _I’m not an expert_.”


	9. A Path Less Travelled

  It took Cerys a little shy of a month and a great deal of help before she was finally able to understand the very basics of the book. Diero Astorio assisted her in ways she appreciated. Which is to say he did not interfere in her preferred silence. In fact, she might have gone so far as to say he seemed to enjoy the silent company as much as she did.

  She wasn’t entirely sure she would call him a friend. She was not even sure she would necessarily call him a teacher. He didn’t exactly  _teach_. However, she settled for thinking of him as a sort of mentor, if nothing else. The more time she spent with Diero, the more of an enigma the man revealed himself to be. And yet, within that enigma was something Cerys understood. Self-doubt.

  From what she had gathered, he’d had an upbringing not unlike her own. He’d hailed from Daggerford, but his parents had moved him to Secomber when he was young. None of this, he’d told her. In fact, she’d found out most of what she knew of Diero Astorio from none other than Mara Marsk, who had described him as an ill-fitting child.

  According to Mara, Diero had grown up an alone child, but not a lonely one - something Cerys knew all too well. Still, she was not sure what had drawn him to Mystra, or clericism, particularly when he made such a good lawman - and not one soul in Secomber could tell her which had come first. Her prying had not gone unnoticed by the man, and she supposed that was why she was sat in his office, upon the plush green settee once more, resisting the urge to shrink beneath his scrutiny.

  He sat, waiting for her to speak. She said nothing, and waited for him to break first. Neither breathed a word. After a good few minutes of utter silence, Diero’s face broke into a smile. Cerys inclined her head to one side, unsure of what he found so very amusing. Rolling his eyes, he gestured to the small metal tin of tobacco sat beside her on an end table, and held his palm out. She passed it to him with no issue, however when she attempted to bring her hand back to her lap, she found herself tightly in his grip, and her curious gaze turned wary.

  “Worry not,” he said, letting go of her hand. “I merely wanted to know if you were sweating or not.”

  “And why, pray tell, would I be sweating, Mr Astorio?” she asked, now more confused than ever. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The soft fabric rustled beneath her. Diero’s brow knotted.

  “You must be aware of why I’ve called you into this meeting,” he said.

  She certainly did, but she was not about to openly admit having pried into his history. She raised her eyebrows, and inclined her head for him to continue.

  “I… I believe there may be a connection between you and the path I found myself wandering many years ago,” he said.

  Well, in that case, Cerys had no idea what he was on about. Unless the path he’d found himself wandering was one of inappropriate investigations into his mentor’s past.

  “Don’t give me that look,” he said. “You read the book, did you not?”

  Cerys nodded, still not even slightly sure of what he was on about, now. “I did,” she said. “What of it?”

  “What did you think?”

  “Well… I’m still not entirely sure about all of the words… some seem to have no modern equivalent, which is mildly baffling considering the language is not all that old,” she said, shrugging. “I mean… Khelben Arunsun is an interesting man. Well  _was_. No… he still is,” she said. “I’m not exactly sure what he had to do with Mystra, but… that sounds… interesting, also.”

  Diero nodded. With a eager look in his eye, he opened the small tin of tobacco and took a small pinch of the dried leaf, which he promptly poked into the end of his pipe, pushing it down with a slender finger.

  “And what do you think of this Mysta?”

  “Well… I’m no expert on the matters of religion, but… she’s not exactly what I expected of a god,” she said, a sheepish smile creeping across her lips. She was not quite sure it was alright for her to say that, given Diero’s connection to the god. Diero chuckled, and she relaxed a little, though not entirely.

  “Is she not?”

  “I pictured gods being more… I’m not sure, honestly. I did not expect any of them to take an interest in such things as wizards, but then… the weave is one of the gods’ great mysteries, so I don’t really know  _what_  I was expecting.”

  “She seems very much your sort of god.”

  “Do you think so?” Cerys asked, and leaned back in her seat to consider it. “I always figured if I walked any religious road, I would find myself treading the path towards Oghma.”

  Diero grunted, as if that possibility had not crossed his mind. Tilting his head from one side to the other, as if weighing up the options, he finally nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I can see that. But I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

  “You think I am not giving myself enough credit by considering myself to have an interest in Oghma?” she asked. “Why, I’m quite sure some might find that borderline heretical, Mr Astorio.”

  Diero chuckled again. “I only mean to say you are a bright young woman. I think you might have an aptitude for magic - and I suspect reverence of Mystra will see you through to that goal.”

  Cerys recoiled. She looked down at the cracked leather cover of the bool sat to her left on the settee. Placing a hand upon it, she stroked her fingers across the cover, and they caught upon its dog-eared corners. She hadn’t considered the possibility of learning to control the weave herself, however, while she would not have considered herself any authority on matters of the weave, she had learned a great deal of its nature from the book on the Blackstaff.

  The soft sigh that came from Diero drew her gaze to him. She was vaguely taken aback, for she hadn’t expected to see pity upon his features. Diero was many things, but pitying was not a side of him she had yet seen. She inclined her head, unsure of how to proceed, and she was thankful when he filled the void in conversation with his voice.

  “You hadn’t entertained the idea, had you?” he asked, his voice quiet. First, Cerys shrugged, but then she shook her head.

  “My father is a pig farmer. My mother is a pig farmer. I would have you guess what their fathers and mothers were.”

  “So what does that make you, Miss Jones?”

  Cerys smiled, though it was not a happy smile, and Diero Astorio knew exactly what this smile meant. Saying nothing, she lifted her hand from the book cover, and placed it back in her lap. He understood this action to mean the conversation was over. She appreciated his attentiveness.

  “Have you had any more thought on the mysterious circumstances surrounding the sudden and unexpected death of your dear pig, Wilmorn, Miss Jones?”

  Cerys took a deep breath, grateful for the subject change. She went to shake her head, and made it a good half-way through the motion before settling for a shrug. “Not exactly. The the examining body that oversaw the pig agility will be back in town next month.”

  “Ah, and what will you do when they return?” Diero asked.

  Cerys tapped her chin, absent-mindedly. “Well… I suspect the cake was laced with something poisonous. The only thing dear Wilmorn, my parents, and I shared in common was that we all ate the cake, only days before we fell ill. The obvious culprit would be - of course - none other than Mrs Lavinia Greenbottle,” she said.

  “If you believed it was Mrs Greenbottle, should you not have brought this to the court’s attention? Officially, of course.”

  “There is no proof.”

  “That is not true,” Diero said. “I am well-versed in magic that would prevent her from lying. All we would need to do would be to ask her quite simply if she knowingly played any part in sabotaging that cake,” he said.

  “First and foremost, if she was smart enough to find a way to poison that cake in front of an audience - without being caught red-handed, then she is smart enough to weasel her way out of such an accusation.”

  Diero took a deep puff on his pipe, mulling over her words before nodding in agreement. “The difference between honesty and the truth,” he said, and Cerys nodded. “So you want irrefutable proof.”

  “ _If_  Mrs Lavinia Greenbottle  _is_  behind the sabotage, then I want enough evidence that when she attempts to speak dishonestly, I can present additional evidence to discredit her claims,” she said.

  “ _If_?” Diero asked. “So you are doubting your conclusion.”

  “I daren’t presume anything, at this point, Mr Astorio. However, as I mentioned, Mrs Greenbottle always wins the pig agility. She has done so every year, ever since I can remember. It makes little sense why she would poison a cake she expected to take home.”

  “Unless she did not plan to take it home,” Diero said. “What if she suspected your father’s beloved Wilmorn would eventually surpass her own pig. If she poisoned your pig, it would look suspicious. If she poisoned a cake she was supposed to win, it would be senseless. Unless she had not planned to win, and instead  _allowed_ Wilmorn the victory.”

  Cerys tapped her chin again, eyes narrowing. “That is certainly a possibility, and one I would not rule out. It is doubtful, considering Wilmorn’s triumph came a surprise to all of us - including Shandri Kulenov, who oversaw the examining body. However, if this were the case, Mrs Greenbottle got exactly what she wanted… Wilmorn is no longer amongst the living. He shan’t be winning any further contests, and yet I still catch her scowling at me and my parents - even when we are not looking.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Do you not think that odd? I might understand her keeping up the act when we are looking, but to continue to scowl at us… I think she intended to win that cake,” Cerys said. “So I wish to speak with the judges. I will enquire about the origin of the cake. If it was left alone, I want to know where and how long for. I want to know where it came from, who made it - and-” she stopped speaking when she spied the grin plastered across Diero Astorio’s face. “What in the world are you giving me that look for, Mr Astorio?” she asked. “Have I said something?”

  “Why yes, Miss Jones. You have,” he responded, struggling to stifle his evident satisfaction. “You’ve said everything - perfectly.”

  “I…” She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, leaning forwards in her seat.

  “You!” he said, clarifying absolutely nothing for her. “You are exactly who I thought you were. That sharp mind of yours is going to serve you well in the days to come,” he said and leaned back in his own armchair. Cerys lingered mid-lean for a good few moments before following suit, leaning back.

  “Well I am glad I have pleased you, even if I am not sure what this is about,” she said. "I ought to let you get back to work, as I am sure you are busy. However, before I take my leave, there is one more thing I wished to discuss with you,” she said.

  Diero extended a hand, gesturing for her to continue. “By all means,” he said.

  Cerys nodded in appreciation and lifted the book onto her lap. She flicked through the pages, catching glimpses of diagram, charts, and colourful illustrations, until she found the passage she was looking for; a small paragraph in an unfamiliar script, scratchy and scrawling. Studying it for one final moment, as if clarity might come to her, she sighed when she could still make no sense of it, and spun the book around for Diero to have a read.

  “What’s this?” he asked peering across the gap between them. She picked the book up and extended her arm out for him to take it from her, which he promptly did, placing it down upon his own lap. He narrowed his eyes, before reaching his hand out and groping the table beside him for his glasses.

  Cerys smiled and rose to her feet. She circled around his desk and retrieved his glasses from the far side, before stepping back around and holding them against the table beside him. His hand collided with hers and he looked up with a start. She said nothing, and his gaze fell down to the glasses in her hand.

  “You left them on your desk,” she said, and he looked back up to her again. “Your glasses.”

  “Oh.” Swallowing, he wetted his lips and nodded in appreciation. She turned her hand over to present them to him and he took them from her, wiping the lenses upon his woolen jacket, before sliding them onto his face. She stepped around him, and leaned over to watch him read.

  “There are a number of these passages in the book, and I understand none of them,” she said. “I thought - considering this book came from you, Mr Astorio - you might be able to offer me a little insight, as I feel I am missing something.”

  Diero nodded. “Well, I must confess… I had only flicked through it. I hadn’t noticed any passages such as this one,” he admitted, looking over his shoulder and up at her. She nodded, and he turned his attention back to the page before him. After taking several deep breaths in through his nose, and shaking his head a good half a dozen times, he leaned back and sighed in defeat. “Why, Miss Jones, this is an enigma.”

  “What ever do you mean, Mr Astorio?” she asked, reaching her hand down for the book He lifted it for her and she took it, holding it up to her face.

  “That passage is in fact written with the draconic script. I am well-versed in such a tongue,” he said, though the the way his voice lingered made it clear to Cerys he was not done talking, and she said nothing, instead awaiting him to continue. “ _This is_... nonsense.”

  “I…  _Pardon_?”

  “Whatever is written here is nonsense,” he said. “Or… Well… perhaps it’s  _not_ … It is a magical script, and so while it is written with the letters of the draconic language, it is not written in draconic. This… is likely a code of some sort,” he explained. Cerys stepped around him, still lingering on her feet. Her lips twitched into a smile.

  “Is there any way to dispel the magic?”

  Shaking his head, Diero sighed again. “To do that would be to destroy both the illusion there and potentially the original writing. Someone has deliberately obscured this text. For what purpose, I can only guess.”

  “So that only the right person could read it,” she said. “It makes no sense to conceal the meaning without a reason. Either whoever wrote this needed it written so that they might find it again later, or so that someone else would.”

  “A reasonable theory,” Diero said. “In which case, it would seem neither of us are the right person.”

  “Perhaps,” Cerys said. “Without being able to read draconic, I couldn’t say for sure, as I don’t know if you and I are seeing the same thing.”

  “That is a point to consider,” he agreed.

  “Well then. It seems I should add leaning draconic to my itinerary if I wish to get to the bottom of this. I feel like… I feel like I’m missing something in this book. Interesting as it is, I feel like there is more to it, and I’m almost touching it - only inches away from having it in my grasp,” she said.

  Diero chuckled and plucked his glasses from where they rested upon his nose. Folding them up, he placed them on the table beside him and rose to his feet. He brushed out the wrinkles of his trousers and the dust off his shoulders before taking a step towards Cerys who snapped the book closed and lowered it to her side.

  “I must ask, Miss Jones,” he said. It was her turn to swallow. An unsettling twist in her gut kept her at disease.

  “By all means,” she reprised.

  “ _Is_  it the knowledge you are after, or is it the puzzle? Which motivates you? I know you say it is knowledge you seek, but your actions speak differently.”

  “I suppose I ought to admit… it is both. I am only too eager to learn new things - anyone who feels otherwise is doomed to remain the fool, but… to be  _handed_ knowledge… well that seems entirely too boring, to be frank. It would be dishonest to dismiss the thrill of a mystery.”

  Diero snorted and inclined his head towards her. “And yet you feel you walk  _Oghma’s_  path.”

  Looking up at him, she shrugged. “Perhaps this conversation has swayed me,” she said, and paused before adding, “just a little.” With a coy smile, she bowed her head and took a step away from him. She backed out of the door, and pulled it closed behind her as she turned to face the corridor, leaving him alone in his office. She remained in place, her back against the door. She closed her eyes, teeth sinking into her lower lip as she listened through the door.

  Inside, Diero Astorio let out a deep sigh, though Cerys could not decipher the meaning behind it. Shaking her head, she headed down the cold corridor of the courthouse and stepped through the doors, out into the scalding summer heat.


	10. Lipstick on a Pig

  Cerys continued to try and decipher the cryptic jumble of draconic letters in the old leather tome. It occupied her time, at least, until Shandri Kulenov returned to town, along with the other judges of the annual Pig Agility. Her parents were less than thrilled at the way she had confined herself to her bedroom to study in silence and solitude, and they were  _more_  than less than thrilled at how she had taken her mother's dressing table and one of the chairs from downstairs and locked them away in her room with her.

  So it was fair to say both Ann and Igor were relieved when - after days of isolation - their daughter finally joined them for breakfast and sat down to eat with them rather than retreating to her room before they could rope her into doing something to help around the farm.

  Ann watched her daughter closely, ladling porridge into her bowl. She pushed the bowl over to Cerys' side of the table, although her hand hovered nearby as if she might grab it were Cerys to try to make a hasty retreat with it. Cerys returned the watchful gaze, doing her very best to keep her expression blank as possible. Ann was not a stupid woman, despite what her daughter thought, and both were very aware of the game the other was playing. Finally, with a sharp sigh, Ann brought her hand away from Cerys' bowl and sat down in her own usual seat.

  The wooden spoon clattered against the side of Igor's dish. He'd managed to finish his own breakfast in the time it had taken Cerys and Ann to decide who would be the first one to give up the staring contest between the two. They looked to him in unison, and sighed the same sigh, in the way that only a mother and daughter could.

  "So are we actually going to have a hand today, or are you back off to your room like the insensitive girl you are?" Igor asked.

  Cerys turned her head down to the porridge before her and rolled her eyes. "Actually, as I glanced out of my window this morning, I chanced upon Ms Shandri Kulenov," she said. "I need to have a word with her."

  "Oh, that's right," Ann said, raising a finger in the air, as if she might have something important to say. "You were going to ask about entering Westra into the agility next year, weren't you?" she asked.

  Cerys stared at her porridge, her eyes widening in evident frustration. No. She had  _not_  been going in search of Shandri Kulenov to ask about entering  _any_  of their pigs into  _anything_. She'd said nothing of the sort. She'd merely asked her parents to notify her if they spotted Shandri Kulenov in town. Admittedly, she hadn't corrected them when they'd assumed her reason for seeking the woman out was somehow related to future Pig Agility contests, but she'd not the time nor patience to explain anything to her parents.

  "Well, I don't know how long she will remain in Secomber for," Cerys said. "So I really ought to make haste." With that, she spooned several dollops of the porridge into her mouth, and rose to her feet, still swallowing, leaving the majority of the contents of her breakfast still in the bowl.

  "You've barely touched your breakfast," her mother said, and Cerys smiled in a way that strongly suggested she was aware, and did not care to eat any more. "You'll waste away, you know. No man will want that. Men like a woman with a bit of meat on her bones, right Igor?"

  "Right, right," Igor grunted affirmatively, though Cerys was not sure if he even knew what it was exactly he was agreeing to. Looking up from his empty bowl, he eyed Cerys' leftovers with a great deal of greed, before turning his gaze to his daughter. Looking her up and down, he tutted and shook his head. "If you're not careful, people will mistake you for a skellington, dear."

  "Skeleton."

  "What?"

  "You said skellington. It's  _skeleton_ ," Cerys said in a sigh.

  "Oh, what... and you're some kind of an-"

  "No. I'm  _not_ an expert, father, but it's  _skeleton_ , not  _skellington_ ," she said, already regretting ever correcting him. He puffed his cheeks out in anger, his rosy cheeks reddening further, and she was reminded of the fever that may well have killed him had she not given into Diero Astorio's seemingly senseless demands.

  "Oh pack it in, Cerys! He can say it however he likes!" Ann snapped.

  "He can, certainly," Cerys agreed, glancing down at her father's snaking grasp, reaching for her unfinished breakfast, "but it's still the wrong word."

  Ann huffed and glowered at Cerys as she pulled the younger woman's bowl towards her, and out of the reach of Igor, who looked up - startled. This went unnoticed by Ann who rose to her feet in one sharp motion, and stacked the bowls with one hand, flapping the other towards the door. "Get going, you little know-it-all!" she said, but despite her unpleasant tone, Cerys was certain her mother was more teasing than anything else. Regardless, she did not appreciate being teased when she was not the one mispronouncing simple enough words.

  Backing away from the table, Cerys dabbed at her mouth with her fingers whilst making her way towards where her boots lay at the foot of the door. Slipping them on, she was about to leave without lacing them up, when she caught sight of her mother's mortified expression. Scoffing, she knelt down and tightened the laces before knotting them in a neat bow. She cast an inquisitive glance her mother's way, and Ann returned a satisfied look of her own, bowing her head and nodding to the door. Cerys shook her own, and pulled it open, letting in a rush of fresh air from the dewy morning outside. She took a deep breath before stepping out into the cool morning sun.

  She found Shandri with some ease. The woman tended to attract a crowd. She travelled much for her work, and often brought back  _interesting_  knick knacks Cerys would classify as worthless tat. Nonetheless, others in town were only too eager to get a good look at the ornaments Baldur's Gate, Greenest, and Waterdeep had to offer, and so they crowded her. Today was no exception. When Cerys located Shandri near the town hall, she was being crowded by a good dozen people who really ought to have been doing their jobs. Not that Cerys was one to talk.

  Standing somewhere near the back, she managed to catch Shandri's gaze. The woman seemed surprised to see Cerys, presumably as Cerys had never shown any interest in Shandri, and she had certainly never shown any interest towards Shandri's hopeless taste in useless ornaments. Smiling to excuse herself, Shandri pushed her way to the crowd and made her way to Cerys.

  "Miss Jones. This is a surprise," she said. "Congratulations, once again, for Wilmorn's phenomenal win... last month was it?"

  "Something like that" Cerys said, and Shandri smiled apologetically.

  "It gets hard to keep track of time when you travel so much," she said. "Anyway, enough about me - is there anything I can help you with?" she asked.

  Cerys' eyes narrowed. She wasn't aware that Shandri had said anything about herself, and so the apology seemed out of place and falsely polite. She did not return Shandri's smile. Instead, she nodded firmly.

  "As a matter of fact, there is," she said, "and I was wondering if, perhaps, we might speak in private," she said. Shandri looked uncertain, but Cerys kept her expression sincere. "It is about the Pig Agility and Wilmorn," she added. This seemed to sway Shandri who took in a deep breath, and nodded.

  "Please," she said, gesturing for Cerys to follow her, before turning and leading Cerys down the wide streets of Secomber and to her cottage - a homely cottage that rivalled Diero Astorio's in beauty. The thatched roof seemed brand new. Cerys could not remember anyone doing any work on Shandri Kulenov's house, but then, Cerys was not particularly fussed about the happenings of Shandri Kulenov's  _life_.

  Shandri led Cerys inside, past the freshly painted yellow door, and into a pleasantly bright sitting room. Lining the walls were paintings of oddly beautiful pigs, though Cerys felt only despair at the sight of them, knowing - only too well - her father would have quite happily decorated his own bedroom like this, had he only the money to do so. She was momentarily grateful that she'd given up on her attempt to learn how to paint in her childhood, lest she have been forced to replicate the atrocity that was Shandri Kulenov's sitting room.

  Shandri gestured to one of the settees, of which there were two, both draped with matching pale green throws, each embroidered with painfully twee floral motifs. Cerys nodded, though she could think of nothing she wanted to do less than sit down on either of them.

  She'd hoped she might be able to hover, but Shandri continued to stare at her until she - with a great deal of reluctance - lowered herself into the seat. As Cerys had suspected, the settee was entirely too soft, and she found herself sinking into the cushions beneath her. Shandri smiled.

  "I'll fetch some tea," she said, and before Cerys could protest, Shandri was gone.

  Throwing her head back, Cerys took a deep breath to calm herself. She did not want to stay long enough for tea, particularly not surrounded by the disturbing imagery of pigs in petticoats and tailcoats, frolicking beside rivers in the moonlight, or playing upon rope swings. Gritting her teeth, she also could not ignore the undeniably musky scent of a room that had not been aired in a month. Regardless, she waited patiently for Shandri's return.

  When Shandri did return, she returned with a polished silver tray carrying two dainty porcelain teacups, painted with similar floral designs to the throws on the settees, and a tall silver teapot. Also on the tray was a small wooden dish filled with sugar, a small jug filled with milk, and three small spoons. Cerys could feel the bile rising in her throat.

  Her father had raised the prize-winning pig, and yet he lived from week to week, not knowing if he would have the money to feed his family on any given day. Meanwhile, Shandri Kulenov spent her time travelling from town to town, merely  _looking_  at pigs and deciding which one should win the meaningless prize for running the fastest, or looking the prettiest, or tasting the best - and she was  _paid_  to do it, and paid quite handsomely from the looks of it. It seemed unjust. Cerys knew it was not Shandri's fault. Regardless, she still resented her for it.

  "Tea?" Shandri asked.

  Cerys stared blankly, before shrugging with a scoff. "Why not," she said. If Shandri was put off in any way by Cerys' evident distaste for the situation, she did not let it show. Continuing as if Cerys had responded with emphatic affirmation, she smiled broadly, and poured the tea from the tall silver teapot into one of the porcelain teacups, before picking it up on its saucer and offering it to Cerys.

  Cerys eyed the milk and the sugar. She did not much care for milk - or for tea, for that matter - but she supposed it would take longer for her tea to cool enough to drink if she did not saturate it with milk. She waited for Shandri to be done with the milk, before taking the jug and emptying the remainder of the contents into her own teacup. The cup filled so much that the liquid was spared from spilling due only to the surface tension.

  She did not dare tempt fate by stirring it, and instead lowered her head to sip from the cup, until it was empty enough to risk lifting it.

  Shandri watched with a great deal of uncertainty. Sipping from her own cup, she swallowed a mouthful of tea, before placing it back down upon its saucer, and placing the saucer on the ash wood table in front of the settees. She took a seat opposite Cerys.

  "So, Miss Jones... how might I help you?" she asked. "You mentioned it was about Wilmorn. Is everything alright?"

  With a grim smile, Cerys grunted affirmatively. "Well, that is just it, Ms Kulenov. Wilmorn is dead."

  Shandri gasped, her eyes wide in shock. "I... I am  _terribly_  sorry to hear that. I do hope you will pass my condolences on to your father," she said. "If you don't mind my asking... what happened?" she asked. "Wilmorn seemed healthy to me."

  "And that, Ms Kulenov, is precisely why I wanted to talk to you," Cerys said. "Wilmorn  _was_  healthy. He was not just healthy, but - arguably - in his prime. He was fit enough to win a competition," she said. Shandri nodded for her to continue. "Yet, only days after the contest, our beloved Wilmorn passed away."

  "Do you know how?" she asked.

  "I do," Cerys said. "Wilmorn contracted filth fever."

  Shandri gasped again, and looked around the room, as if she might spy a plagued rat amongst her personal effects. Cerys was absolutely certain a rat would have better taste than to make its home amongst Shandri's tacky belongings.

  "However," Cerys said, drawing Shandri's attention again, "he was not bitten," she added. "Furthermore... while I have not told anyone this - not even my parents - all three of us were also afflicted by the disease."

  "And were  _you_  bitten?"

  "To my knowledge, no one in my family was bitten," she said. "Which, of course, brings about the question... how were any of us afflicted by the disease in the first place?"

  "One could only guess, Miss Jones."

  "Perhaps." Cerys paused to sigh. "Though, I think it is rather suspect that none of our other pigs have been diseased. Only Wilmorn. I can think of only one thing dear Wilmorn, my parents, and I each had in common... and that is the cake we all shared after Wilmorn won first prize at the contest."

  Shandri hesitated, frozen in place. For a moment, she looked horrified, as if Cerys might be accusing her of poisoning the cake. Cerys forced herself to smile - a weak, half-hearted smile - and that seemed to relieve some of Shandri's fears. No longer fearful she'd been accused of attempted murder, she placed her hands together and looked down at where they rested in her lap, deep in thought.

  "Well... it is certainly a theory, Miss Jones."

  "A theory is all I have right now. If I am wrong - and I hope I am - investigating this lead further will do nothing to enlighten me as to how I, my family, and our pig contracted such a vile illness," she said. "So... I must ask. Where was the cake kept prior to it being brought out onto stage at the town hall? Who had access to the cake? And finally, did  _you_ have any enemies or rivals?" she asked.

  "Me? What would any rivals of mine have to do with this?" she asked.

  "It is quite possible somebody wanted to ruin you."

  "But I never eat the cake."

  "Perhaps they didn't want to kill you, Ms Kulenov. Perhaps they merely wanted to see your career fall apart, leaving you without the money to... to sustain  _this_ lifestyle," Cerys said, gesturing around to the hideous and woefully expensive decorations littering the walls and sideboards.

  Shandri's brows rose up her forehead and she picked her tea up to take another sip. "I... I can't think of anyone who would want to see me fail enough to risk killing someone  _else_ ," she said. "And my only rival is in Greenest. I have not seen her here in Secomber. I have no idea how she would get to the cake. It is more likely you were the target of this."

  Cerys shrugged. "So where was the cake and who had access to it?"

  "The cake is kept in a side room - in one of Mr Jassan's cold tins to keep it fresh - and I can't say it's exactly...  _guarded_ , but... I'm certain if someone brought a  _rat_  into the town hall  _someone_  would have noticed. Anyone with the key would have had access to the side room," she said. "Oh dear, Miss Jones... I'm distraught that this happened at one of  _my_  contests. I cannot believe someone would target you!"

  "Nor can I," Cerys said, then paused, before correcting herself. "Nor  _do_  I."

  "I... sorry?"

  "Every year, Mrs Lavinia Greenbottle wins the cake," Cerys said. "You are right - someone would have noticed if a live rat had been brought into the town hall - and furthermore, we'd have seen someone else diseased with filth fever, unless they had somehow worn thick clothes to protect themself from the rat's bite - and then we would have noticed that, too. I mean... can you imagine someone wearing thick clothes in such heat?"

  "Are you sure no one else has had filth fever?"

  "Diero Astorio is trying to get to the bottom of this. He is, of course, one of the few people in this town who can cure filth fever - and so he would be aware if someone else had contracted it."

  "So then, what?"

  "I suspect my family, I, and our pig were not the targets of this malicious crime," Cerys said. "At first, my gut reaction was to suspect Mrs Greenbottle, but she could not have had a chance to poison the cake, and I am beginning to wonder if perhaps  _she_  was the target. After all, she is normally the one to win, is she not?" she asked.

  Shandri nodded. "Yes. I... I mean no offence, but it took us all by surprise when Wilmorn took home  _any_  prize, never mind first place," she said. "Your father has never entered into a contest before, so we certainly had our doubts."

  Cerys snorted. She had tried to make that point to her father when he'd insisted on entering Wilmorn into the contest. She'd attempted to explain to him how hard it was to win such a contest anyway, but he'd asked her when she'd gone to study Pig Agility contests, and had disregarded her input. Cerys might have even gone so far as to say  _she_  was more crushed by Wilmorn's win than Lavinia Greenbottle. Ever since the contest, Cerys' father had challenged her on almost everything she'd tried to say.

  "Trust me," she said, "we were as surprised. But if no one thought we would win, it stands to reason we were not the target."

  Shandri nodded. She leaned back in the chair. Cerys had to admit the pale green complimented Shandri's dark complexion quite favourably. It did nothing for her own pasty skin tone, however. She loathed to admit it, but she was warming to the woman.

  "This is very concerning," Shandri said. "There hasn't been anything like this since the Hydrangea Heist of fourteen seventy nine," she added, "and that wasn't something so serious as this - not even close. I feel terrified to think there is someone walking our streets who has a vendetta against poor Lavinia."

  Cerys didn't feel terrified. She thought, perhaps, she ought to. Especially considering she was starting to pry, and if someone would try to kill Lavinia Greenbottle over some feud, she could only imagine what that same person would do to someone actively hunting them. She hadn't ruled out that it might be the very woman sat across from her. It  _was_ , after all, awfully convenient that she had left town the evening following the contest. Still, she knew Lavinia Greenbottle would never talk to any of her family, and she was most likely to speak with Shandri Kulenov. Cerys was certain they were friends.

  "Would you speak with Mrs Greenbottle?" Cerys asked. "Could you find out if she has had any trouble with anyone recently?"

  Nodding in response, Shandi sighed. "Of course. I'm assuming you'd rather I didn't divulge what you have told me here today," she said.

  "Naturally," Cerys said. "If you were to tell Mrs Greenbottle, I worry she might go after this person - assuming it is even the right person - and that will only make matters worse," she said. "No, if you could speak with her, and then let me know what you find out, I can forward that information on, to Mr Astorio."

  "Would you rather I didn't go to Mr Astorio?"

  "Well, only that if someone is watching us - it makes far more sense for you and I to have a chat than for you and a Mr Astorio. After all, it was my pig who won the Pig Agility," she said, and after considering it for a brief moment, Shandri nodded. "Speaking of which, my parents wish to enter Westra next year."

  "Westra?" Shandri asked, cocking her head to the side. She scratched her cheek, and stared at a blank space on the wall behind Cerys, as if the name seemed familiar. "Oh! Westra is the one with the black ears, is she not?" she asked, leaving Cerys stunned. Cerys barely knew the names of a handful of her father's pigs, she could not fathom how a woman who was barely in town would know  _any_  of them.

  "Well... I...  _yes_."

  "Oh... oh no. I wouldn't submit Westra," she said. "Her legs are very short."

  "My father thinks her small size will work in her favour," Cerys said, but Shandri simply shook her head.

  "Personally, I would err on the side of caution with a pig like Westra," she said, then paused. "Mind you... no one expected Wilmorn to win; he certainly wasn't a typical pick for an agility contest, so perhaps your father has an eye for something I don't," she added with a chuckle. "Who knows, perhaps he should be doing  _my_  job?"

  Cerys laughed. "Don't tell  _him_  that. He's already rather bitter that I shan't be marrying Madevic Vargoba, and that we therefore shan't be moving to Waterdeep. If he had a chance at moving to a big city to judge pigs for a living..." She didn't finish the sentence. Shandri smiled fondly. "Well, while I thoroughly enjoyed our chat, Ms Kulenov-"

  "Shandri. Please."

  "Certainly. While I thoroughly enjoyed our chat...  _Shandri_ ," she said, casting Shandri a pointed look as she said her name, who scrunched her nose up in a smile, "I had best be on my way. I have some important things to attend to."

  "Of course, Miss Jones. It was an absolute pleasure to have you around. Please feel free to drop by any time, and I will seek you out when I have had a chance to speak with my dear friend, Lavinia."

  Nodding in appreciation, Cerys finished the last of her tea, and pulled herself out of her seat - although she struggled a little, with how far down she had sunk. Shandri stood up, leaving her cup on the table. She took Cerys' cup from her and placed it down beside her own. She led Cerys back through the house, and to the front door, waving as she saw her out.

  Cerys waved back, and headed back towards the village centre. Nodding to herself, she found herself surprised at how well the conversation had gone.


	11. The Unusual Suspects

  Cerys was in her room, half-buried under loose sheets of paper, when she heard Shandri Kulenov knock at the front door. She knew it was Shandri, as the knock was far too  _lively_ to have belonged to anyone else who might have decided to stop by. Flustered from the unexpected visit, Cerys peered through her window and saw that she was - in fact - correct. From her bedroom, she could just about spy the back half of the top of Shandri Kulenov’s tight black curls.

  She headed down the stairs, and spotted her parents in the field from the window. Eager to get Shandri in the house before her parents realised the esteemed judge was at their front door, she took the rest of the steps in twos and threes, landing awkwardly on her right ankle at the bottom. The door knocked again, and Cerys hurried to answer it as fast as her hobbling leg would allow for.

  As the door swung open, she met Shandri’s gaze, and attempted a smile. Shandri looked back at Cerys with piqued interest when she saw how the woman was bent forwards, clutching at her ankle. Cerys hopped to the side, and gestured for Shandri to come in, before shutting the door behind her.

  Shandri stepped inside and made her way to the middle of the room, her head tilting this way and that as she took in the stark contrast this room was to her own sitting room. There were certainly no paintings, and the only things hanging from the walls had some sort of practical use; hooks for pots and pans, shelves for keys and jars and a collection of tat that admittedly served no aesthetic  _or_  practical use. There was  _one_  ornamental piece; the certificate Wilmorn had won during the Pig Agility. Shandri’s gaze lingered upon it for a somber moment, before she turned her attention to the one armchair, squeezed in amongst the mess around it.

  “Would you like a drink?” Cerys asked the back of Shandri’s head. Shandri turned around, finally noticing the table and benches by the hearth. She gestured to them, and then turned her head to Cerys, as if to ask if it were alright for her to sit down. Cerys nodded.

  Sitting down in the space Ann usually took up, Shandri shook her head. “I’m grateful for the offer, but I am afraid I’m in somewhat of a hurry. I thought I would merely pop in to update you on what I found out,” she said.

  Cerys nodded eagerly, and sat down opposite Shandri, in her usual seat. “Please,” she said, inclining her head towards Shandri, who took in a deep breath and placed her hands in her lap.

  “Well I spoke with my dear friend Lavinia.”

  “And?”

  “And…” She hesitated, squeezing the word out, before adding rather hastily, “she mentioned nothing about any kind of enemies or anything of the sort.”

  Cerys was certain there was entirely more to the story than just that. She said nothing however, and continued to watch Shandri. Shandri shifted in her seat, most uncomfortably. Cerys continued the silence, and eventually Shandri sighed.

  “She  _said_  nothing. However…  _I_  am aware of at least one person who does not like Lavinia.”

  Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “You seem hesitant to say anything.”

  “Well… I would never wish to speak ill of my friend.”

  “ _Of course not_.”

  “You see, the thing is... Lavinia has some…  _strong_  opinions about Calishites,” she said, swallowing hard. “When Atala Jassan was charged with the Hydrangea Heist of 1479, Lavinia petitioned to have both Atala, and her husband Haseid, sent  _back_  to Calimshan.”

  Cerys leaned back in her seat, pursing her lips as she considered this new piece of information.

  “However… Atala Jassan wasn’t born in Calimshan. Atala Jassan is from  _Daggerford_  of all places, and as you can imagine, both she and her husband were most upset about the kinds of generalisations Lavinia was making.”

  Shaking her head, Cerys leaned forwards again. “What kind of generalisations?”

  Shandri swallowed again, and looked around, as if she were worried Lavinia might poke her head out from under the table, or from behind the armchair, and accuse her friend of slandering her name. “Well… Lavinia went to Baldur’s Gate some years ago, and whilst passing through Little Calimshan, she had her coin purse stolen. Honestly, anyone could have done it, but Lavinia was quite certain it was a Calishite, for why else would they be in Little Calimshan?”

  “Well, I can think of a number of reasons,” Cerys said.

  Shandri nodded. “And I, Miss Jones. Furthermore, I have been to Baldur’s Gate many times, and I’ve had coins taken from my purse on more than one occasion - it doesn’t so much matter where you are in a place like Baldur’s Gate… misfortune is certain to follow you.” She paused for emphasis. “I was once pickpocketed in the  _noble_  district!”

  “So it is possible Mrs Jassan has some ill feelings towards Mrs Greenbottle, then?” Cerys asked. “Where  _is_  Mrs Jassan these days? I recall her going to prison, but I do not recall her release,” she added. “Surely, she cannot still be locked up for stealing some hydrangeas?”

  Shandri’s lips parted, and she took in a deep breath before shaking her head sluggishly. “This… this is not common knowledge, and I would beg you do not repeat it. I only know because… Well… it doesn’t matter how I know. Mrs Atala Jassan is dead.”

  Cerys’ mouth hung open as she attempted to process the news that had taken her by utter surprise. She blinked a few times before averting her gaze from Shandri, instead focusing on her fingernails. “I… had no idea.”

  “No one does. Well… very few. You are right - it was a small crime - a petty crime… and yet… Secomber is a small town, and any crime is blown entirely out of proportion here. You know how they love to gossip,” she said. “Atala Jassan was so humiliated. She professed her innocence right to the end, and was still charged with the crime.”

  “I remember the mob outside the courthouse,” Cerys said.

  “Yes… she could not bear to face them, and she did not want to be chased from her home here in Secomber. So… she… she took her own life.”

  The silence that followed Shandri Kulenov’s words was palpable; oppressive. Cerys took a deep, staggering breath, and Shandri mirrored her. Each nodded slowly, in acknowledgement that neither should speak of this again after today. Cerys focused on relaxing her body. She had never heard of anyone taking their own life before. She couldn’t fathom what might drive someone to such a fate, especially if they believed they were innocent. She supposed, however, a guilty conscience could likely drive anyone to take some drastic measures.

  “Which leaves only Mr Jassan to bear any grudge towards Lavinia,” Shandri said.

  Cerys nodded, though she could not imagine Haseid Jassan as the sort of man who would plot to kill poor Lavinia, despite her so-called  _strong opinions_. He seemed such a calm man. Cerys would never have suspected his wife had taken her own life - not from his demeanour. Of course, all this meant was the man was good at concealing the truth. That, or he was heartless enough to not care for his wife’s death. Why, then, would he care to end Lavinia Greenbottle’s?

  “How would you feel, were you in his shoes, Shandri?” Cerys asked, turning her gaze to Shandri’s dark eyes.

  Shandri sighed and shook her head. “I would blame Lavinia for my wife’s death, were I Mr Jassan,” she said.

  Cerys grunted in agreement. “Perhaps… but enough to  _kill_?”

  With an emphatic shake of her head, Shandri swallowed her sorrow. “Not me. No matter the pain, I could not resort to such measures,” she said.

  “That still doesn’t explain how he could poison the cake,” Cerys said, gritting her teeth together in frustration. “Who  _made_  the cake?”

  “Well, I presume it was those lovely dwarves, Rurik and Thoradin Frostbeard, as it is with every year.”

  Cerys’ blood ran cold as she recalled the events of the Summer Fête, and how she had passed out. Rurik had wanted to take her to Haseid Jassan’s stall. If they’d had something to do with the poisoning, they must have known what was happening to her, and that would explain why they had been so helpful.

  “I simply can’t imagine what kind of problem either Rurik or Thoradin Frostbeard would have had with dear Lavinia, that it would lead them to try and poison her,” Shandri said.

  Cerys shook her head. “Perhaps they didn’t. You mentioned when last we met, that the cake had been stored in one of Mr Jassan’s enchanted tins, did you not?” she asked, and Shandri’s eyes widened.

  “How could I have not seen this?” she gasped. “By the gods, this is all my fault! I should have known something was amiss when he offered to lend the tin for the cake!”

  “He  _offered_?”

  “Well last year, the cake was half-melted by the time Lavinia ate the first slice - it’s been ever so warm the past few summers, and all the buttercream icing kept melting. It was very gracious of Mr Jassan to lend the tin.”

  “Or so you thought.”

  “Yes - or so I thought.”

  Cerys nodded firmly. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I am sorry to have kept you for so long when you had said you were in a hurry,” she said. “I’d…”

  “Appreciate it if I repeated none of this?”

  Cerys nodded again, this time looking ever so slightly sheepish. “If there  _is_  a killer in this town, I would rather not let him or her know we are onto them,” she said. “It might encourage them to take some desperate action against poor Mrs Greenbottle.”

  “Him or her?” Shandri shook her head as she rose to her feet. “You don’t think it is Mr Jassan?”

  Climbing out of her seat, Cerys headed to the door and shook her head. “I wouldn’t rule anything out,” she said, and opened the door, letting the cool breeze into the house. She took a deep breath before adding, “not just yet, anyway.”

  With an uncertain nod, Shandri Kulenov stepped out into the mid-afternoon sun, and turned to face Cerys. She shrugged, and opened her arms for a hug. Cerys froze and instead reached out to put a firm hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  “I sincerely hope all of this is a mistake, Miss Jones,” she said.

  “I share your concerns,” Cerys said. “I’d rather be mistaken about all of this… for if I am not…” She did not need to finish. Shandri understood. Nodding slowly, she bowed her head and took a step away from the door, before heading back towards town.

  Cerys waved her off, not certain of how long it was customary to see off visitors. Her arm grew swiftly tired, and she lowered it, took a step back, and shut the door. She paused momentarily to catch her breath, and then rushed back up the stairs, collapsing through the doorway of her bedroom. Grabbing her bag, she shoved Diero’s old tome down into the bottom, and snatched seemingly random sheets of paper from where they fluttered in the air, swept up from all the commotion, and stuffed them on top of the book.

  She was unsure if she should go directly to Mr Jassan or either of the Frostbeards first, or whether it was better to discuss what she had learned with Diero. Her gut told her Diero would be disappointed, if not outright offended, if she did not at least consult him on these matters. Rolling her eyes, she raced back down the stairs and nearly forgot her shoes on the way to the door, remembering only when a stone, that must have come in with Shandri Kulenov, embedded itself in her foot.

  She hissed in pain, and backtracked to where she’d left her boots in a heap by the bottom step, slid them on, not bothering with the laces, and tumbled out of the front door, just about managing to avoid tripping over her own feet as she headed down the path towards and the courthouse.


	12. Anecdotal Evidence

  When Cerys burst into Diero Astorio’s office, she found the man, rather bizarrely, standing in the centre of the office, pipe in one hand, looking straight at the door as if he’d been awaiting her very arrival and she was late. She looked him in the eye, most flustered, and recoiled backwards. With a flick of his hand, the door swung shut behind her, and her back collided against it with an audible  _thud_.

  “ _Diero_ ,” she said. “I-I mean… Mr Astorio… I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I…  _pardon_?”

  Cerys grimaced. That was not what she had meant to say at all. Shaking her head, she tried again. “I only meant to say… Mr Astorio… You seemed to be expecting me, but I had not been expecting to see you today.”

  Diero looked to his pipe, before puffing on it, lost in thought. He took a step towards her, and she made an attempt to take one away, but found her back planted rather firmly against the door. He blew the smoke into her face, and she held her breath while lifting one hand to fan it away.

  “Then why are you here, Miss Jones?”

  Cerys swallowed. “Well… I…”

  Without waiting for her to continue, he spoke again. “As for why I looked as though I might be expecting you, perhaps you may want to consider how conspicuous you are, bursting through the front double doors of the courthouse, with your boot laces untied and your hair in… such a state,” he said, and Cerys shuddered. A moment passed before Diero smiled to show he was not being entirely too serious, though Cerys was only too aware of how he had not actually lied.

  She wetted her lips and bowed her head in apology. Finally, he took a step away, and pivoted on the spot in one graceful motion, before making his way to his chair. Sitting down, he rested his elbow on arm of the chair before gesturing with his pipe for her to take the settee opposite. Cerys obliged, and perched neatly on the edge.

  “So, Miss Jones,” he said, taking a deep breath and shuffling to get comfortable, “mind telling me what was so important you had to see me right this instant?”

  Cerys grimaced again. In retrospect, nothing. She swallowed her doubt, and attempted to calm herself before straightening her back and speaking. “I have been doing some investigations into the cake,” she said.

  “Ah, that is right, Ms Shandri Kulenov is back in town, isn’t she?” he asked.

  “That is correct, Mr Astorio. I confronted her outside the town hall, while she was being accosted by the nosey denizens of Secomber, and she invited me to her house,” she said, and drew breath to continue, but she could see from the way Diero’s eyes lit up, he had something to say, and so she paused to allow him the opportunity.

  “Ms Kulenov’s house,” he said, stifling a smirk. Cerys nodded, understanding that he presumably felt similarly about the unorthodox choice of wall decorations. “What a beautiful place it is - and a beautiful owner, too - but what a terrible shame about her taste in decor, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Cerys shrugged. “She is entitled to dress her house however she sees fit. Thankfully, she can no more enforce me to adopt her taste than I can force her to desert it,” she said, and Diero chuckled before nodding for her to continue. “I asked Ms Kulenov if she would not mind talking to Mrs Lavinia Greenbottle about any recent grudges, and when Ms Kulenov got back to me, she said Mrs Greenbottle could think of nothing.”

  “That sounds rather unlikely.”

  “Unlikely that Mrs Greenbottle could think of nothing, or that she would say as such?”

  “Oh, I have no doubt Mrs Greenbottle would  _say_  she had no enemies, but even she is not so dense as to think she is well- _liked_  within Secomber. She has been a difficult woman to deal with over the years.”

  “Well, regardless, Ms Kulenov told me of Mrs Greenbottle’s distaste for those of a Calishite heritage.”

  “Ah,” Diero said. “Well, yes. There are some nasty feelings there, but if you suspect Mrs Jassan had anything to do with the poisoned cake, I can assure you - she had nothing to-”

  “I know that Atala Jassan is dead,” Cerys said, “and I know that she took her own life,” she added. Diero paled, ever so slightly.

  Swallowing, he nodded. “Ah.” He looked her up and down. “Ms Kulenov told you of when we found her then, did she?”

  Cerys inhaled sharply. No. Apparently, that must have slipped Shandri Kulenov's mind. Though, Cerys supposed, it was not a particularly pleasant topic to discuss, and she did not begrudge Shandri avoiding such details. Saying nothing to confirm nor deny Diero Astorio’s statement, Cerys sighed.

  “I am having trouble believing Mr Jassan would hurt anyone.”

  “You’re right. He does not seem the sort. I think more information is required,” Diero agreed. “Still, this was certainly all very interesting and important to know.”

  Nodding, Cerys leaned back in her seat very slightly, and pulled her bag onto her lap. As she opened the flap to the brown leather satchel, pieces of parchment, in an assortment of sizes, flew out in every direction, before resting scattered upon the floor.

  Diero looked down at the array of papers, but one piece in particular seemed to catch his gaze. It was a scrawling of one of the passages in the draconic script Cerys had found in the book she’d acquired from him. With a string of muttered apologies beneath her breath, her hand darted forwards to reach for it, only it collided with Diero’s.

  “What is  _this_ , Cerys?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. He put his pipe down on the table beside him, and grabbed his glasses, unfolding them and sliding them up his nose.

  Cerys let go, allowing him to keep ahold of it while she gathered up the other papers, neatly stacking them. She went to lie the pile on the seat beside her, but Diero rose to his feet rather sharply, before taking the seat next to her, right where she had been about to put down her stack of parchment.

  The stale waft of smoke caught in her throat, and she looked away to take a breath of mildly fresher air before looking back to him. He took the stack from her hands and placed it the other side of him, before gently laying down the lone scrap in her lap.

  “It is one of the passages from the book,” she said, and looked up only to realise just how closely he had leaned in. She leaned away slightly.

  “Are you quite sure?” he asked, looking down at the paper from over her shoulder. He placed a hand upon her upper back to support himself. She shuddered beneath his touch.

  “Well…as I cannot read it, I merely copied the shapes, but I started noticing patterns in the text. It is not simply a jumble as you said. There is structure to this. This is definitely  _language_.”

  Diero nodded firmly. “ _This_  is, but this is not what  _I_  saw in the book.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Mr Astorio?” she asked.

  “Remember how I said the text was shrouded in illusion magic?” he asked, and she nodded. “The illusion magic stopped the passage from being read by the wrong pair of eyes. As such, I could not decipher it. You, however, appear to be reading the text itself, and not the illusion.”

  “And whatever does  _that_  mean, Mr Astorio?”

  “Quite simply put, Miss Jones, to whomever wrote this text, you are among the people who have been permitted to read it.”

  Cerys paused, her brows rising as she turned her gaze to the text once more. She studied it for a brief moment, before bursting into laughter. “Well!” she scoffed. Diero chuckled.

  “Well, indeed.”

  “What a pity it is, then, that I cannot understand the draconic language,” she said.

  Diero nodded, and twirled a loose strand of her hair around his finger. “It is a pity. However… if you can copy the text onto parchment - such as you have done with this one - I can translate them for you.”

  Cerys lifted the small scrap up to get a better look at it. Shaking her head, she turned her gaze to Diero. “I will do so,” she said, “if you use it as a starting point to teach me this draconic tongue, both written and verbal.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Miss Jones.”

  “Cerys."

  Diero blinked a few times, before nodding his head. “It would be my pleasure,  _Cerys_.”

  Cerys and Diero spent the next three hours with the door locked as they worked on copying up each passage from the book. The texts were still difficult for Diero to decode, even without the illusion concealing the actual wording, and they had both agreed it would be best to gather all of the data before so much as attempting to organise it.

  Standing beside Diero, as they both hovered by his writing desk, Cerys tapped the feathered end of her quill on the parchment and awaited Diero finding the next passage for her to copy down.

  “I think that’s it,” Diero said, flicking back through the pages of the open book. Satisfied he’d found all of the passages, he stood up straight and nodded. “Yes. That was the last one.”

  “Now to put these in some semblance of an order,” she said with a sigh, and took a step back to get a better look at the scraps of paper and parchment blanketing Diero’s desk. She shook her head, blurring her vision in the hopes of finding some sort of pattern, and drew breath to speak once more, when Diero put one hand on the small of her back, and with his other, put a finger to her lips.

  Panic momentarily flooded her body, but then she heard the knock at the door, and Diero lowered his hand from her mouth, instead putting his finger to his own lips. She nodded, struggling to keep the grin from sliding onto her own face. The door knocked once more, but Diero did not move, and instead turned to his window. He pulled the blind across, and whispered a word whilst reaching into his pocket. Light flared into existence, spilling out of his pocket, and he pulled out a single illuminated coin.

  “Shouldn’t you be working?” Cerys asked in a whisper. “I can come back later.”

  “I’m rather enjoying having you here,  _now_.”

  Cerys smiled, though it was a foreign feeling to her. The two of them waited for the knocking to subside, before Diero pulled his seat out for Cerys. She shook her head and gestured for him to take it, but he merely scoffed and took her by either shoulder, planting her down in the chair.

  “I insist,” he said, and she remained seated. He leaned over the desk, his one palm flat against the dark wooden surface and his other hand holding his glasses up.

  The pipe lay where he had left it upon the table beside his arm chair. He hadn’t touched it since they’d started work on translating the passages. She had expected the room to smell better for it, and she was not sure if it were simply that the door was closed, stopping the air from circulating, but there was a strange scent to the room that the smoke from Diero’s pipe had previously been masking. It was a sickly scent; the sort of scent that usually lingered around the aged, and elderly.

  He hadn’t mentioned any sickness, and Cerys was loathe to jump to any conclusions, however now she had identified the peculiar smell, she could not ignore it. Her stomach twisted as she realised what this was. He was grooming her to take over his role. He was going to die. She said nothing, though her lips parted to allow her to breathe softly.

  “Is something the matter?” Diero asked, still focused on the papers splayed across the desk. Cerys looked away with a start, but she knew it was too late, and he had already caught her staring.

  “I… No.”

  He turned his head towards her, and his gaze lingered upon her. She pretended to focus on the paper, and feigned surprise as she looked up to find him still scrutinising her.

  “ _Is_  something the matter?” she asked.

  “You were staring,” he said.

  She tilted her head to one side, conjuring up a subject change. “You… you said ‘ _we_  found her’,” she said. “Ms Kulenov and yourself.”

  “That I did.”

  “Why were you and Ms Kulenov in the prison cells?” she asked. “What were you doing there?”

  Diero’s eyes widened for a moment, before lighting up, and Cerys wondered if perhaps she had asked the wrong question.

  “Well,” he said. Cerys closed her eyes. She had the most awful feeling she was about to regret this. “The prison cells are a most quiet place, and as for what Ms Kulenov and I were doing there, why to even speak of it would make you blush, Miss Jones,” he said, enunciating her name clearly in such a way that Cerys was left with no doubt making her blush was exactly what he wanted. And she did.

  “Right,” she said.

  “Would you like to know more?”

  “No. No, thank you. That will be quite enough,” she said. “Now… as for these passages.”

  With a sly grin, Diero turned his gaze back to the parchment and passages, and picked up the first scrap. Drawing a deep breath, he started to read aloud.


	13. On the Fence

  Cerys’ eyes fluttered open. For the briefest of moments, she experienced the unsettling nag of déjà vu as she dug her fingers into something soft beneath her, immediately recognisable as Diero Astorio’s green settee. Blinking a few times, she was about to sit up when she felt something beneath her head shift, and she realised her head was at a most peculiar angle. She opened her eyes wide, and looked up, finding that her head was resting against Diero Astorio’s knee.

  He held several of the scraps of parchment in one hand, fanned out so that he could read each of them with ease. In his other hand, he turned over a glowing coin between his fingers. His glasses rested upon the tip of his nose, and Cerys could see from the bags beneath his eyes, despite the bright illumination of the coin washing out his features, he had been up for a long time.

  “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Diero placed the coin down on the arm of the settee before putting the papers on top of them. Light spilled through, but it was not the only source of light. The thin blinds were illuminated from the other side by the telltale dusky blue of morning.

  “It’s godswake,” he said softly.

  It took Cerys a moment to register what he’d said, but then - rather suddenly - she realised what that meant. She’d been here all night. Sitting bolt-upright, she scrambled to her feet, knocking a fleece blanket onto the floor.

  “Oh gods!” She gasped, running a hand through her tangled hair. She turned to look at him, staring in disbelief before looking over to the blinds again. “Have you been up all night?”

  Diero chuckled, though it was a sluggish laugh that bore signs of exhaustion. With a nod, he gestured to the scraps, tapping them with the backs of his fingers, and causing one to fly loose. Cerys shielded her eyes from the exposed light, lowering her hand only when Diero had dispelled the magic.

  “This proved harder than I had thought it would,” he said. He grabbed at a sheet, though in his state of lethargy it took him a few attempts before he had one between his fingers. He picked up the blanket from the floor and folded it into a neat square, which he placed beside him, in the space Cerys had occupied until only moments ago, before holding the scrap of parchment out for her to take.

  She obliged and turned her gaze downwards. Despite the light from outside, it was still mostly dark in the study, and she had to move next to the window to get a good look at what she was supposed to be reading. Several of the phrases, written in the draconic script, had translations beneath them in Diero’s own hand, though there were significant portions missing.

  “As a language,” she said, looking up to meet Diero’s gaze, “does draconic have many words that are difficult to translate?” she asked.

  He smiled warmly and rose to his feet, before starting to stretch. “As with all languages, some phrases have no direct translation,” he said, “however,  _that_ … is not draconic.”

  “I thought you said-”

  “Well, it is, and it isn’t.”

  Cerys inclined her head in confusion, turning her attention back to the paper. “Then what, pray tell, is it?”

  “Aragrakh,” he said in a sigh. “Draconic is a very old language - one of the earliest, so scholars think. Aragrakh, known more commonly as old high wyrm, is the only known variant to what is an otherwise unchanged language.”

  Cerys blinked a few times. “So another dialect of an already ancient language,” she said.

  “And a less common one at that,” Diero added. “However, that is not the only strange thing. As the passages go on, occasionally there were some words slipped into the texts that were neither the standard draconic dialect, nor old high wyrm,” he said.

  “So what else was it?”

  “Netherese.” Diero took a deep breath in, and cracked his knuckles before removing his glasses from his nose. Folding them up, he clipped them to the front of his tunic, and rolled his sleeves up. Cerys looked to him, her eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll admit I know little of the Netherese, other than what I’ve read in the book on the Blackstaff, and if I’m honest, there’s not much there about them, either.”

  Diero nodded. “The Netherese, well… They were powerful wizards, and ambitious, too. Perhaps a little too ambitious. Their tongue is very much a dead language. I managed to figure out that some of these passages are written in Netherese only because I recognised one of the words from another book I own.”

  “Do you think you can translate them?”

  “I’m uncertain. However, I know of a man who might well be able to translate this text,” he said. Cerys nodded, eagerly. “You’re not going to like it, though.” She pulled her head back slightly. “Madevic Vargoba.”

  Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, Madevic Vargoba cannot so much as read the common tongue, and furthermore nor does he see the value in learning to.”

  Inhaling, Diero folded his arms. “You aren’t wrong, Cerys. However, Madevic Vargoba happens to be in possession of a scroll containing magic that would bestow upon the user the ability to understand the literal meaning behind any text they touch for a period of time.”

  Cerys’ features screwed up. “I don’t want to go crawling to Madevic Vargoba - the man I was supposed to be betrothed to - until  _you_  convinced me to buy a book with my dowry, and ask him for a magical scroll, so that I might decipher the book I bought instead of accepting his hand in marriage,” she said, cocking her head to one side

  “Put like that, I doubt he’d help us.”

  “Can’t we just steal it?” she asked. “He leaves a spare key to his house under the flowerpot by the door. He thinks no one notices, but-”

  “Certainly, you can steal it, Cerys. Then, you might return here so I can take you down to the cells. Not  _all_  of them are in need of repair,” he said. Cerys huffed. “Look, if it’s that much of an issue, there is one other who might be able to help us… and if we hurry, we might catch him before he goes home.”

  “Anything has got to be better than Madevic Vargoba,” she said, gathering up the scraps of parchment from around the room. She stuffed them back into her satchel, along with the book itself.

 

  Cerys regretted those words, the instant she realised just who Diero Astorio had been referring to. Paelias Meliamne was tall for an elf, and he would have had perhaps the most glorious hair in all of Secomber, had it not been left to tangle into little more than a nest of sun-kissed straw. He had narrow features, and high cheekbones, and even though his clothes were drenched with whatever vile spirits he’d managed to get his hands on in the Seven-Stringed Harp - possibly the most disgusting tavern in all the Western Heartlands - they still managed to portray that beneath this intoxicated state was a man of some status.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cerys said.

  “I assure you, I am not.”

  “Listen, I’ll admit I’m no expert on alcohol, but I’m utterly certain no man in that state would be capable of so much as reading the name of the tavern he was in, even if you’d told him only moments prior to asking,” she said.

  Diero shot her a pointed look, one she returned with equal enthusiasm. “Well, we can always turn around and find Madevic Vargoba,” he said. Cerys rolled her eyes, and turned her gaze back to Paelias Meliamne. Through the window of the Seven-Stringed Harp, she could see him banging his fist on the table, though the hammering was inaudible over the ostentatious ditty of the glowing harp somewhere behind him.

  “Well, Miss Jones,” Diero said. “What will it be? A trip to meet your former fiancee, whilst your hair is…” He paused to look at her, and attempted to gesture to what her hair was doing, but could not find a polite motion to make, and simply allowed his hands to drop to his sides. “Alternatively, we can go ask the wonderful Paelias Meliamne if he wouldn’t mind sobering up just a little to lend his aid in unravelling this enigma.”

  Cerys shook her head. “What makes you think he’ll do anything simply because you’ve asked him to?” she asked, and Diero chuckled. Reaching behind her head, he pulled on one tail of the ribbon in her hair, undoing what was left of her bun. She jerked away in protest, but it was already done, and her hair hung limply beside her face.

  “What makes you think  _I_  was going to be the one to ask him anything?” he asked. Cerys’ nostrils flared. Glowering she shook her head.

  “Do either of us care enough about this?”

  “I think you do.”

  “I’m telling you I don’t.”

  “And I told you, you could have a job when you could  _read_  the book. Until you’ve read the book, it looks as though there is no job for you, my dear Miss Jones,” Diero said. Cerys drew breath to protest, to insist he wouldn’t dare, but then she remembered this was the man who would have let her parents die had she not agreed to this in the first place, and suddenly she felt she would not put anything past him, and so - with a glower - she took the ribbon back from his grasp, and tied her hair up again, before pushing past him, and towards the abnormally low door of the Seven-Stringed Harp.


	14. One Over the Seven

  The Seven-Stringed Harp was not a place Cerys had ever expected to find herself, and had her parents known she was there, they might well have disowned her. Of course, their warning had nothing to do with alcohol, and little to do with men, and mostly seemed to have revolved around Finnan Greenbottle - Lavinia Greenbottle’s husband. He worked the bar, and neither Igor nor Ann wanted to put a single copper piece in the halfling man’s palm. Technically, the two gold coins in her hand belonged to Diero, so she felt less awkward about the whole ordeal. However, she wasn’t sure her parents would see the difference, and furthermore, they were likely to ask why she had been with Diero Astorio all night to begin with.

  She was not surprised to see Finnan’s confusion as he looked up to the tinkle of the bell above the door, only to see none other than Cerys Jones stepping out of the cold light of dawn, and into the warm glow of the rougher of Secomber’s two taverns, at only Oghma knows what hour. His mousy curls wobbled as he cocked his head to the side, unsure of whether she had come to drink, or to start an argument. Cerys shook her head, and he sighed in relief before raising one brow. She returned the look, before turning her head to Paelias. She looked the elf up and down from behind and grimaced.

  The tavern was surprisingly noisy for such an hour. By no means was that to say it was full. On the contrary, the only remaining patrons looked as though they may well have fused to their benches, and were in fact unable to leave. However, this half a dozen men required no assistance in making the same amount noise a group three or four times their size might have.

  Meandering her way past mismatched chairs strewn across the exposed wooden flooring - and stepping over a dwarven man curled up and fast asleep - Cerys approached the bar, and Finnan regarded her with some apprehension.

  “Miss Jones, if this is about the noise, I’ll tell you what I told Mr Astorio the last time he came knocking… I can’t turn the damn harp off,” he said.

  “I’m not here about the harp,” she said, casting a glance to the enchanted instrument. Finnan was not wrong. The harp was the product of a spell cast by a powerful wizard, and it never ceased playing. She had to wonder if it could create its own music, or whether it was following some sort of pattern, and whether - if enough time were spent in the tavern - one would notice these patterns and suffer for the repetitiveness. Turning her attention back to Finnan, her eyes narrowed. “Why would you think I had come about the harp?”

  “Well, you’re always just spending a lot of time with Mr Astorio, as of late,” he said.

  “No, I’m not,” Cerys said rather defensively. A rumour like that would get her into a lot of trouble with her parents, who seemed to not approve of Diero Astorio in the slightest.

  “Oh… My bad. I thought I’d seen you two together a fair bit recently,” he said, but Cerys said nothing in response, and the two fell into an uneasy silence until he broke it by speaking once more. “I feel like you’re here for a reason?”

  “Yes,” Cerys said, and stepped to the side to give Finnan Greenbottle a clear view of Paelias Meliamne. “What does Mr Meliamne drink?” she asked.

  Finnan looked at her with uncertainty. Cerys know she’d likely have been giving herself the same look were she in in shoes. Still, she did not move, nor did she change her focused expression, and eventually Finnan shrugged.

  “Well, Miss Jones,” he said and took a deep breath before sighing. “If I’m entirely honest, it’d be quicker for me to give you a list of anything he  _wouldn’t_  drink.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  With a cheeky grin, Finnan pulled out three bottles from under the counter. Each were beautiful in their own right, with carefully calligraphed labels. “He won’t drink anything over five silver a bottle,” he said.

  “Is that personal taste, or-” Cerys stopped her question, when Finnan Greenbottle rolled his eyes. “Right,” she said. She placed her two gold on the counter, and slid it across to him. He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing as he uncorked one of the bottles. Filled with a dark liquid, Cerys could not tell if was brown or red in the dim lighting of the tavern. It was tall, with a diamond-shaped pattern embossed across the neck. She peered at the label, however she was not yet good enough at reading to decipher the calligraphy with its swirling tails and unnecessary embellishment.

  “Right you are then, Miss Jones,” he said. He reached under the bar and produced two mugs, before looking to Paelias Meliamne. “I… hope you know what you’re doing,” he added.

  Cerys nodded appreciatively, and reached to take the bottle from him. He seemed hesitant to let it go, but after a moment of moving his rather intense stare between Cerys and Paelias, he conceded and allowed her to take it from him.

  She took the two mugs in one hand, holding the bottle in her other, and manoeuvred her way back around the chairs and the dwarf, continuing across the tavern until she stood behind Paelias Meliamne. The two men sat opposite the elf fell silent as they looked up at her in confusion.

  “Jones?” one of them asked.

  Paelias froze. “Listen, Igor, if it’s about that fence, I can assure you it had nothing to do with me,” he said, placing his hands in the air.

  “Not Igor, no,” Cerys said, and Paelias spun around, swinging his legs over the bench, to stare up at her in bewilderment.

  “M-Miss Jones! What are you doing here?” he asked. “Look, can you tell your father, I just-”

  “We can talk about that in a moment. First and foremost, I have something else to discuss with you. I’m sure your friends won’t mind leaving us two for a while,” she said, and cast each of the men opposite Paelias a pointed stare. They offered nervous looks to the back of Paelias’ head before rising to their feet and taking their drinks to another table.

  Cerys paced around the table and took the seat opposite the elf. She said nothing as she poured the wine. The dark liquid sloshed into the mugs with a distinct lack of finesse that gave her inexperience away, something Paelias noticed, even in his drunken state. Admittedly, however, he seemed to have sobered up a little at the sight of a Jones.

  Up this close, Cerys thought he looked somewhat like a brass statue, particularly with how rigid he was sat. His dusky bronze skin, blonde hair, and gold eyes all blurred into one in the orange glow of the tavern.

  “So,” he said, gulping. Cerys had to wonder what kind of interactions he’d had with her father to have left him so nervous, or if it was even the same Igor Jones they each knew.

  Cerys lifted her satchel, dropping it on the table. He flinched and leaned away. Lifting the flap, Cerys exposed the mess of papers contained within it, and at the sight of nothing overtly sinister, the tension in Paelias’ shoulders slackened a little.

  “I have with me some texts,” she said. His eyes narrowed. “Some are written in Aragrakh - which you might know as-”

  “I know what Aragrakh is,” Paelias said in a sigh.

  “Right. Well, other passages are written in Netherese,” she said.

  Paelias stared at the table, though his hand reached for one of the mugs of wine. Cerys pushed it towards him, and he took it by the handle, bringing it up to his mouth, though he did not drink from it.

  “I’m sorry…  _what_? Could you repeat that?”

  “Aragrakh and Netherese,” she said.

  “Netherese?” he asked. Cerys drew breath to repeat herself, yet again, but he spoke before she could. “Why in the world would anyone write  _anything_  in Netherese, these days? That language is as dead as the Netherese themselves.” Taking a sip from the cup, he continued to stare down at the table. “Where did you say you found these texts?”

  “In a book.”

  “ _One_  book.”

  “Yes,  _one_  book. Why are you interested in how many books there were?”

  “I just… I’m struggling to understand  _why_  those two languages. What do they have to do with each other?”

  “Well, that’s what I’d like to know, and I’ve heard you’re the man to talk to about such things,” she said.

  Paelias scoffed. “Who’d you hear that from?  _Ciara_?”

  “Who?”

  “No? Then…  _oh_. Of course. Diero Astorio,” he said with such contempt Cerys was certain Diero would be able to feel the sting wherever he currently was. “Well, I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Miss Jones. Tell Diero I said go burn in the nine hells, won’t you?”

  “I’m sensing an ever so slightly bitter twinge of animosity towards Mr Astorio, Mr Meliamne.”

  “ _Mr Meliamne_ ,” he scoffed. “Flattery won’t buy you anything here, Miss Jones. I don’t know how you and  _Mr Astorio_  like to do things, but round here, it takes more than wine and manners.” With that, he downed the rest of his mug, and poured himself another.

  Cerys drew a deep breath in. She shifted her gaze from him to the papers, and then back to him. Closing her eyes she pulled the other mug towards her, and took a sip of her own wine.

  “Fair enough,” she said, though she did not think it was fair at all. She’d just spent - well…  _Diero_  had just spent two gold on this.

  “So, unless you’ve got something more to barter with, get out of here and leave me to drink in peace. Those days are far behind me, and I don’t much fancy looking back.”

  “Then why don’t you start by telling me about your business with my father. What happened with the fence?” she asked. “Who knows, maybe I can have a word with my father and maybe you won’t have to deal with him. Alternatively, I could go home and tell him how rude you were to me. I’m sure he would love that.”

  “You’re not supposed to make the offer  _before_  you make the threat.”

  “What?”

  “You made me an offer, and then you threatened me,” he said. “You’re supposed to say something like… Well, I guess I’ll be off home then to tell my father what a rude bastard you are.  _Or_ , you could give me a hand, and I can go home and tell him I met a handsome, dashing, wonderful elf at the tavern last night.”

  Cerys stared at him. “I’m not going to say  _any_  of that. So why don’t we just start with the problem” she said.

  Paelias rolled his eyes. “Look, before you say anything. It’s not my fault.”

  “A compelling start.”

  “How was I supposed to know the feed was bad?”

  “What feed?”

  “You know… your weird pig -  _his_  feed.”

  “I’m sorry…  _what_? Just… go back to the beginning.”

  Sighing, Paelias glowered at Cerys. “Your pig. The dead pig. Your old man thinks I organised with the fence to get him bad feed - poisoned feed - as a favour to Greenbottle over there.”

  “Wait…” Cerys raised her hand to silence him, her features screwing up. “What’s that got to do with a fence?”

  “What?”

  “I feel like we’re talking about two different things here, Mr Meliamne.”

  “What do you  _think_  I’m talking about?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Mr Meliamne. I’m not entirely sure what a fence has to do with any feed - poisoned or otherwise.”

  “Well he sold it to your father, didn’t he?”

  Cerys’ heart skipped a beat, cold blood rushed through her veins, freezing her in place. Her gaze lingered on Paelias, but she could not see him, for all she  _could_  see was red. The papers quivered as she retrieved them from her bag with trembling hands, laying them out in front of him.

  “I will make your problem go away. You are going to translate these,” she said, struggling to keep her voice quiet and calm.

  Paelias glanced down at them, before looking back to Cerys, following her with his eyes as she pushed herself to her feet, her fists balled against the table. Once she had straightened her back, she took the bag from the table, gripping it so tight, her knuckles blanched.

  The elf said nothing in response, his features drawn. Cerys slung the bag over her shoulder and shot him one last cold look before leaving.


	15. The Hand that Feeds

  Igor Jones woke with a start when his bedroom door flung inwards, slamming against his wife’s dresser hard enough to leave a mark. Silhouetted against the doorway was his daughter. He could just about see, by the dim light of dawn, she was  _livid_.

  “Cerys?” he asked, sitting up in bed, and reaching for his tinderbox to light the candle upon his bedside table. His wife sat up beside him, her chest heaving with frightened breaths. The candle cast an unsettling light about the room, and only served to accentuate the furious creases in Cerys’ face.

  “Dear, what’s wrong?” Ann asked either of them, both of them.

  Cerys took one deliberate step into the room, shaking her head, though the rage in her features did not let up. “How  _stupid_  are you?”

  “Don’t you come in here and speak to your father like that” Ann hissed, but Cerys raised one finger to silence her.

  “How  _stupid_  are you? Both of you! A fence?  _Stolen_  feed, father.  _Stolen_!”

  Ann turned her accusatory glance from her daughter to her husband. Igor shrunk back under the covers.

  “What were you  _thinking_?” Cerys continued. “You do realise I am working closely with the  _lawman_? You do realise I’m going to have a job in a  _courthouse_? And  _you_  are buying pilfered goods! Are you trying to ruin my career before it’s even begun?”

  Igor dropped the covers, revealing his roughspun pajamas, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rising to his feet, he stormed over to his daughter and faltered, as if he had expected to be looking down at her, only now to realise she was not a child.

  “If I had some  _help_  on this damned farm, maybe I wouldn’t  _need_  to buy cheaper feed for the blasted pigs! Maybe our beloved Wilmorn would still be alive! But no!  _You_ , Cerys, just  _had_ to be better than all this!”

  Cerys drew breath to argue back, but he didn’t give her the chance.

  “Anyway, who have you been speaking to? Who did you find out from?”

  “Paelias Meliamne-”

  “I’m going to kill him!”

  “Say a word to him ever again, and I will report you to Diero Astorio, myself.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh yes, I absolutely would. Now, I’m no  _expert_  on how these things work, but I am frankly quite certain having your own daughter report you for dealing with a fence would look pretty  _damning_  in a court.”

  “Well, it’s not like I was going to use that blasted poison ever again,” Igor growled, turning around to look at his wife. Ann stared at him, her brow knotted in shame. She shook her head. “What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked.

  “If we were struggling for money that badly, Igor, you should have let me know! I could have picked up some shifts-”

  “Where?”

  “ _Anywhere_!”

  The Jones family fell into an uncomfortable silence, each looking at one another as they caught their breaths.

  “And… and Wilmorn,” Ann said breaking the uneasy ceasefire. “You’ve killed him,” she added, clutching at her linen nightgown with pale fingers.

  Cerys’ stomach turned over. Drawing a deep breath, she shook her head. “No... He didn’t,” she said. “But  _someone_  did.”

  “When I get my hands on that-” Igor began, but Cerys planted her hand firmly on his shoulder and sighed.

  “Not him,” she said. Her father turned to her with a look between blame and shame. “ _We_  were poisoned,” she said. “All of us.”

  “What do you mean?” Ann asked.

  “The cake was laced with filth fever,” Cerys said. “The cake we won for the pig agility - and before you start throwing the blame around in Mrs Greenbottle’s direction, I’m pretty certain I’ve ruled her out.”

  “How can you be sure?” Igor asked.

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Ann asked.

  “Because I knew you would get ahead of yourselves, and start looking for suspects where there  _are_  none. That’s why Mr Astorio and I have been working together. We’re trying to get to the bottom of this,” she said.

  “But I don't  _feel_  sick,” Ann said. “I feel fine.”

  “That’s because Mr Astorio cast a spell to heal each of us,” she explained.

  “How ever did you afford that?” Igor asked, but Ann was the one to answer.

  “The dowry,” she said.

  Cerys nodded. “Yes.” She paused, unsure of just how much she should tell them, before sighing in resignation. “He told me to buy the book in exchange for the healing. Otherwise, it would have set us back upwards of sixty gold. He said I could work the rest off when I’d learned to read the book.”

  Ann gasped, horrified. She let the breath out softly and shook her head. “Oh Cerys… I wish you would have told us!”

  “You would have tried to stop me.”

  “Of course we would! Instead you’ve… practically sold yourself into slavery!” Igor snapped, causing a most bemused expression to settle upon Cerys’ face.

  “I bought a book, learned to read in another language, uncovered a mystery  _in_  the book, am currently working on the mystery of who poisoned us, and at the end of it all, I get a job I’m going to really enjoy, where I’ll be earning more than enough to take care of the farm.” She rolled her eyes. “This couldn’t be further from slavery. I feel… liberated. For the first time in my life.”

  Ann nodded, though her eyes watered. “It’s… it’s not the life we would have chosen for you.”

  “Presumably why I’m enjoying it so much,” Cerys muttered under her breath, earning her a scowl from both parents.

  “Let me finish,” Ann said. “It's not the life we would have chosen for you, but we just want you to be happy, Cerys.”

  “I  _am_  happy,” she said. Both Igor and Ann looked unconvinced. “I  _am_ ,” she insisted, and they each looked at one another, before looking back to her. Igor nodded, and placed his chubby hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

  “Look at my little girl… growing up to be a lawgirl.”

  “Law _man_ ,” Cerys said.

  “Law _woman_ ,” Ann said.

  “I’m sorry - what did you just say?” Cerys asked.

  “You’re not a man, dear. You’re a woman.”

  “I know what you said… that’s just the first time you’ve ever called me a woman,” she said. Ann scoffed and rolled her eyes, waving a hand dismissively as she got out of bed. She waddled over to her daughter and pulled her down into an uncomfortable hug.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not the first time I’ve called you a woman,” she said. “Maybe to your face, but that’s because to us, you’ll always be our little girl. Won’t she, Igor?”

  “‘Course she will!”

  Cerys gritted her teeth. Insufferable. She twisted out of her mother’s suffocating grip, and brushed the creases from her clothes. “Right, well I must be off to bed now,” she said, turning to leave her parents’ room.

  “One thing, before you go,” Igor said. Cerys turned to look at him. “Why were you talking with Paelias?”

  “Well, Diero and I had some texts we needed translating,” Cerys said. “Mr Meliamne brought you up. He thought you’d sent me to have a stern word with him.”

  Ann’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, if you’re just off to bed, does that mean you’ve been up _all night_  - in the  _Seven-Stringed Harp, no less_  - in the company of  _drunken_   _men_?”

  Cerys’ eyes widened momentarily. She’d walked straight into a trap. That had been a trap, and she hadn’t seen it until it was too late. Not breaking eye contact, she took a step backwards towards the landing, closing the door as she went.

  “ _Cerys Jones_! You get your bottom back in this room  _this instant_!” Ann’s shrieks echoed around the stairwell as Cerys flew down the steps, two at a time. Not stopping for even a moment, she raced out the front door and collided with someone, who - rather thankfully - caught her before she knocked the both of them over.

  “Sounds to me like you could use a quick escape.”

  Looking up, she was most relieved to see none other than Diero Astorio, arm outstretched to link with hers. She sighed - a heavy sigh - and nodded gratefully.

  “I’ll tell you how much of my hero you are, later. For now, you wouldn’t mind me taking a nap in your study, would you?”

  A grin spread across Diero’s cheeks. He turned his gaze up towards Cerys’ bedroom window, before looking back down to the woman before him. “So long as we can get breakfast on the way,” he said.

  “Breakfast sounds perfect,” Cerys said, linking arms with the lawman. With a sharp nod, he led her away from the farm, and back towards town.


	16. Kiss of Life

  The day had turned to evening by the time Cerys awoke, curled up on Diero Astorio’s green settee. It was still light out, even with the blinds drawn, but there was the distinct warm hue of a late-summer-afternoon-turned-evening about the air. It was not the sound of the afternoon bustle that pulled Cerys from her slumber, nor was it the distinct quietness of the evening. What did, in fact, rouse her was the unmistakable sickly smell of a Diero Astorio, who had not lit his pipe in a while, wafting over her.

  With a yawn and half a stretch, she sat up and wriggled free from the thick woollen blanket Diero must have draped over her after she had dozed off. As she looked up, she noticed the man fast asleep in his armchair, the leather book open in his lap, his glasses threatening to fall, held up by only the very tip of his nose.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she pulled herself to her feet, bundling the blanket over her arm. She stepped beside his chair, and delicately plucked the book from his grasp, careful to not wake him, before placing the blanket over him. She was about to turn and leave when something stopped her; something inside her. Turning back around to look at him, she leaned down, lowering her face to his.

  Cursing inwardly, she straightened her back again and shook her head, her fingers gripping the book tightly. She couldn’t. She knew it wasn’t proper. But still… she looked back to him again, biting down on her lip, as if the pain might somehow ground her from her foolish thoughts. It didn’t work, and she found herself perching on the arm of his chair. Leaning in again, she stopped just shy of his lips, willing herself to make a decision - any decision - one way or the other - anything.

  So lost in her idle state was she, that she did not notice Diero Astorio’s lids fluttering open as he awoke to find Cerys Jones’ face almost touching his.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  Cerys’ eyes darted upwards to meet his. She stared into his blue eyes for a moment longer than she was comfortable with, and quickly looked away, opening her mouth to say something - absolutely anything - but no words found purchase in her throat, and she was left, mouth agape, eyes widening.

  “Cerys?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There is a perfectly good - and very reasonable - and also very believable reason as to why I am… as to…”

  “As to why you’re…?”

  “As to why…”

  “Miss Jones?”

  “I… had to be sure you were breathing,” she said, and looked him in the eye again. His mouth opened as  _he_  struggled to find an appropriate response.

  “Did it seem as though I was not?”

  Cerys swallowed. “Yes,” she lied. “So I thought… that I would… I just… if your breath seemed warm.”

  “And did it?”

  “Well… you’re alive, so… I think so?”

  “All’s well, then - or so it would seem,” he said.

  Cerys nodded, with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, and promptly removed herself from Diero’s armchair. Clearing her throat, she brushed the creases from her dress with her free hand, the other holding the book close to her chest.

  “Well, I am glad I have such a loyal mentee to ensure I am in good health,” he said, giving her a look that she took to mean she had crossed a line she really ought not to have.

  “Mentee,” she said with a nod, “yes. Just… just looking out for your health, Mr Astorio,” she added. “That is, of course, what mentees are for.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said. “Should you be…” Trailing off, Cerys caught him glancing to the door, and she nodded again.

  “Yes. I should. I must. I will… I will see you…”

  “Soon?”

  “Yes! That… that is the word I was looking for. I will see you soon. Good- good evening, Mr Astorio,” she said, bowing her head, a little lower than was honestly necessary. Turning to leave, she brought her free hand up to her mouth, and slipped out through the door, pulling it closed behind her, before leaning against the solid wood.

  She let out a shuddering breath, closing her eyes, and gritted her teeth together in rage. She could not understand why she had thought that appropriate behaviour, and considering she was not entirely sure she  _had_  considered it appropriate behaviour, she was not sure why she had intended to even half-follow through with it.

  And yet, there - at the back of her mind - was the seed of a thought, and she could not tell if it had been birthed from narcissism or the genuine first cracks of heartbreak, for she felt shame. He hadn’t desired her the way she had desired him - assuming she did desire him in the first place, and she was not convinced she did, which of course begged the question. Why, then, did she feel so hurt by his rebuttal?

  Keen not to dwell on her humiliation for even a moment longer, Cerys trudged home, doing her best to leave her shame in her wake. Unfortunately, she did not quite make it home. Ann Jones spotted her daughter as the young woman was leaving the courthouse. Her daughter tried hard to pretend she had not noticed, but both saw the transparent act for what it was.

  “Cerys,” Ann crooned.

  Cerys stopped what she was doing and sighed, her posture sagging momentarily. Taking a deep breath, and plastering her face with an obviously fake smile, she turned her attention to her mother, inclining her head in greeting.

  “Oh good,” Ann said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m just off to get some emergency supplies. We’re out of bread,” she added in a laugh. Cerys wasn’t sure what was even slightly amusing about anything her mother had just said, but nodded all the same. “You’ll keep me company dear, won’t you?” she asked.

  Shrugging, Cerys rolled her eyes before nodding. “Fine,” she said, although she wanted nothing more than to go home. Ann smiled at her daughter, though the smile was laden with a falsehood that Cerys took to mean their conversation from earlier was not over.

  As she walked with her mother, their footsteps falling in time with one another, she found herself uncertain of what to say. Ann Jones was an enigma to Cerys. She never quite knew what to expect. Her father was an easy man to figure out. He was simple, with simple thoughts, simple needs, and if she tried to complicate any situation, she could expect to be met with resistance and hostility. Her mother, on the other hand, was a sly woman, smarter than she would ever admit, and she had her husband wrapped around her little finger. Cerys had to be careful where she stepped, for Ann Jones had countless traps laid, and any wrong move could easily result in an unexpected argument, and it was that unpredictability that caused Cerys to keep her distance.

  “So… you were with Mr Astorio,” Ann said.

  Swallowing, Cerys nodded. “I was,” she said.

  “You must be ever so tired if you were up all night, and day.”

  Cerys drew breath to explain she’d had a nap, but realised she’d have to admit she’d slept in Diero’s office, and no amount of backtracking would change the assumptions her mother would make. She shrugged, not committing one way or another.

  “Well, I shan’t keep you, darling. After we get this bread, I’m going to go gossip at the town hall,” she said.

  Cerys snorted, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “At least you’re honest about it,” she said.

  “There’s no sense in lying,” Ann said, looking far too pleased with herself. Cerys supposed her mother was right. Especially after all the lying that had been going on behind both of their backs.

  The late afternoon air was thick with moisture, and smoke from a nearby bonfire filled the air with flecks of ash. Up ahead, the bakery door was open, and stepping out from inside was none other than Shandri Kulenov. As the dark-skinned woman looked up, she spotted both Cerys and Ann Jones, and her face lit up with a bright smile. She waved.

  Cerys nodded in acknowledgement, but to her despair, her mother waved back, and hailed Shandri over.

  “Miss Jones,” Shandri said.

  “Shandri,” Cerys responded.

  Shandri turned her head to Ann. “Mrs Jones.”

  “Ms Kulenov - an absolute pleasure,” Ann said, offering her hand to shake. Shandri took it and gave it a firm shake, before pulling Cerys into an awkward one-armed hug that Cerys did not reciprocate. “We were just talking about next year’s pig agility,” she said, in an attempt to garner Shandri’s sympathy.

  Shandri nodded. “I hear you wanted to enter Westra into the contest,” she said. “She’s not what I would have expected you to choose, but nor was poor Wilmorn - gods rest his soul - and yet… he was certainly a delight, so I shan’t make any assumptions,” she said.

  “Oh… Wilmorn.” Ann sighed. “We do miss him, so.”

  “You must miss him terribly. What a beautiful pig he was, too.”

  “It pains me to step into that paddock knowing I will never see him there again,” she said, shaking her head. She put a hand to her chest. Shandri nodded and placed a comforting hand upon Ann’s shoulder. “It offers me a small comfort knowing he is with Chauntea, now.”

  Cerys’ weren’t the only eyes to narrow in confusion. Shandri cocked her head to one side, and pressed her lips together as she considered her words. “I… was not aware you revered Chauntea, Mrs Jones,” she said.

  “Oh yes. Igor and I are most devout when it comes to Chauntea,” she said. Cerys could not understand the game her mother was playing.

  “But your pigs are sent to the butcher,” Shandri said.

  Ann Jones looked blank.

  Sighing, Cerys took it upon herself to explain. “As in… our pigs are killed…  _for money_ ,” she said. “As in… we don’t even necessarily eat them ourselves.”

  “What of it?”

  “Well, I’m certainly no expert, mother, but I was under the impression Chaunteans didn’t eat anything with a pulse.”

  “Nor do I!” Ann gasped, abhorred by the idea of eating a live pig.

  Cerys closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring as she tried to keep herself calm. She shook her head and grabbed fistfuls of her dress in her hands, breathing out deliberately and slowly through her mouth.

  “I think what dear Cerys means to say is, Chaunteans don’t usually condone taking any lives,” Shandri said. Ann frowned and rolled her eyes, as if to say she’d never heard anything of the sort. “I don’t presume to tell you how to worship your goddess, however” she added, rather swiftly. Cerys was unimpressed with that.

  Scoffing, Ann Jones strolled past Shandri Kulenov, and continued along towards the bakery. Cerys flashed Shandri an apologetic look. Shandri shook her head in dismissal.

  “I apologise for her. She’s…”

  “A lovely woman,” Shandri said. Cerys just stared at her. She could not believe either of them truly believed that, yet still Shandri said nothing and continued to smile. “Are you… are you any further in the poisoned cake fiasco?” she asked, lowering her voice.

  Cerys sighed and shook her head. “A little. It’s hard-going. I don’t want to do anything rash, so I’m just evaluating the evidence I have on hand as of the moment.”

  A grin spilled across Shandri’s face. “Is that why you’ve been spending so much time with Diero Astorio?” she asked. Cerys blushed. “You be careful with him,” she said.

  “Why?” Cerys asked, her stomach twisting. “Has he done something?”

  “What? No! I just mean… a pretty thing like you. Men like women - especially beautiful ones - you be careful you don’t break his heart,” she said. “That’s all I meant to say.”

  Cerys sighed in relief. Shaking her head, she tried to smile. “To answer your question… partially, that’s why I’ve been spending time with him. But also, he and I are working on another project - a translation of an old book,” she said.

  “Oh!” Shandri’s eyes widened in excitement. “How intriguing. Have you had much luck?” she asked, and Cerys snorted.

  “Well the two languages this text was written in… Old High Wyrm and Netherese, of all things,” she said. “So we had to locate someone who could translate it for us.”

  “Please tell me you did not go to Paelias Meliamne,” Shandri said, turning unusually pale for her complexion. Cerys’ lips parted in worry. “My sister Ciara used to work with him. He’s a thoroughly unpleasant, lecherous man,” she said. “Well… I wish you the best of luck with him, Miss Jones, but in the future… should you need anything further translated, might I suggest you go to Ciara.”

  “Wait,” Cerys said. “Paelias mentioned a Ciara.”

  Shandri rolled her eyes, looking thoroughly nauseated. “Sickens me to even picture him saying her name,” she muttered. “Well, Miss Jones. I should let you get to your mother. I must head home, myself.”

  Nodding their heads to one another, the two women went their separate ways, with Shandri heading back to her home, and Cerys making her way to the door of the bakery. No sooner than had she stepped in was her nose assaulted by the cloying scent of breads and cakes.

  “What do you  _mean_  two copper?” Ann growled. “Last week it was  _one_  copper! You’ve doubled the price!”

  “While I appreciate your anger, Mrs Jones, I couldn’t well put the price up by any  _less_ than that, and with less trade coming our way, I not only have fewer supplies, but I also have fewer customers,” the baker tried to explain, scratching his head.

  Cerys sighed and shook her head, and took a step backwards out of the shop. She wondered if her mother would even notice that she was no longer there. Turning around, she made her way home.


	17. A Seed of Doubt

  Cerys did not head into the cottage once she had arrived home. Instead, she headed around the back and lay down upon the old wooden bench that sat within sight of the barn she liked to read in. It quivered as she put her weight on it, and had she not been used to it, she might have feared its imminent collapse, but the bench had been sat there for as long as she had been alive, and had yet to so much as splinter.

  Opening the book, several scraps of parchment fell upon her face. She sighed, and put the book down to pick up the parchment. It did not bring her joy to see Diero’s handwriting beneath her own. On the contrary, it brought only a twisting, deep in Cerys’ stomach, that caused her to become so red in the face, she had to put the passages back inside the book, and sit up, lest she pass out.

  “I thought I heard you coming up the path,” came Igor’s voice from the nearby barn. Cerys looked up to see him standing in the doorway, before casting her glance down to her knees. “Are you still angry with me?” he asked.

  Looking up, once more, this time to give him the most loathsome stare she could muster in her shameful state, Cerys scoffed and shrugged. “It’s going to be a while before I’ve calmed down.”

  “I know I let you down. You,  _and_  your mother. I just wanted to make a better life for all of us,” he said. Cerys looked away again and said nothing. When she heard the rustle of grass underfoot as Igor made his way over to the bench, she was tempted to get up and leave, but she stayed in place even as the bench creaked under his weight as he sat down beside her.

  “Did you think we hated you?” she asked.

  “Well… I do  _now_.”

  “Then why in the world would you think being behind bars would make our lives any better?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

  “Parents do stupid things for their child’s sake, Cerys. We’re not perfect. We’re just human.”

  “Don’t make this my fault. Don’t make this about me. You’re the only one who chose to break the law.”

  “Well, now your mother doesn’t much fancy talking to me,” he said with a sigh. Rubbing his knees, he leaned back on the bench, and the wooden plank - so peppered with holes - shuddered nervously behind him.

  Cerys shook her head and looked out across the grass towards the barn. “From the sounds of it, I’m not exactly her favourite person in the world, either,” she scoffed.

  “I saw you leave with that lawman fella of yours,” he said.

  “My  _mentor_ ,” she corrected him, a very slightly bitter edge to her tone.

  “ _Just_  a mentor?” Igor asked, craning his neck to get a better look at Cerys’ face.

  “ _Just a mento_ r,” she responded.

  “His choice or yours?”

  Sitting upright, Cerys straightened her back, and turned her head back to her father with so little warning, he recoiled. “Can we not talk about  _my_  life right now?”

  Igor raised a brow and nodded. “His choice then, I take it.”

  Inhaling sharply, Cerys went to stand up to leave, when her father caught her wrist and pulled her back down. He tapped the book in her grasp.

  “Fine, fine. No love life. Tell us about your book, then.”

  “Since when do you care about anything I’m interested in?”

  “Cerys!” He sighed. “You make it sound like I have something against everything you like, just because you happen to like it.” She shot him a look, challenging that. As far as she was concerned, that was  _exactly_  the case. “It’s not like that,” he said. “You just… hop so much from thing to thing… it’s not worth getting caught up in it. You’ll hate it in a few weeks.” Her scowl did not let up. “Alright, what about the dancing? You wanted to be a dancer for… what? Two weeks?”

  “I was seven.”

  “What about… Oh! You wanted to be town militia for maybe a month.”

  “You mean when I was thirteen?” she asked. “So far, you’ve named two things - and you’ve struggled to think of  _those_. And I was a child. For both of them.”

  “Fine. The… the dark elf man. Last year you were interested in him, now it’s some other mystery-”

  “Father,” Cerys said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Please, just... shut up. Just stop before I literally explode.”

  “That’s not what literally means.”

  “I beg your  _what now_?” she asked, eyes widening in rage.

  “You told me, not three weeks ago, that you can’t use literally for things that aren’t actually happening. You’re not  _literally_  going to explode. Don’t be silly, Cerys.”

  “I’m literally going to kill you if you don’t stop.”

  “You’re not-”

  “Oh, yes I am. So  _please_. Shut up.”

  “I’ll shut up if you tell me about the damned book.”

  “Fine!” Cerys snapped, before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to calm herself down. “Fine,” she said again, this time softer. She ran her fingers over the worn leather cover of the book. “It’s about a man named Khelben Arunsun - also known as Blackstaff,” she said. “He… was a very powerful wizard. He lived for nearly one thousand years.”

  Igor scoffed and shook his head. “Imagine living that long,” he said. “All the things you could do - all the places you could go.”

  Cerys’ fingers curled as she glanced at him out the corner of her eye. She had dreams of going places, seeing things,  _doing_  things, so she supposed it was very likely her father had dreamed all sorts of things, much alike she did. Obviously, whatever dreams he’d had, had been left behind in his youth. She hadn’t considered it, but perhaps  _everyone_  in Secomber had at one point dreamed of bigger things than small town life. And those dreams had come true for so few of them. It then stood to reason, by the time she was her father’s age, she would be saying the same things to her own children as he often said to her.

  “When you’re young, you’re fearless, Cerys,” he said. “Life is like… an empty field. And you have all these ideas, all these dreams, and they’re seeds, and you just throw them all out there. You don’t bother churning the ground, you don’t understand about that kind of thing yet. As time goes on, you forget to water some, forget to weed others, and they dry up or suffocate…” Pausing, Igor put a hand on Cerys’ back. It wasn’t how her mother did it. It wasn’t simpering and weak. It was firm, and felt unfamiliarly reassuring. “Wind carries some seeds away, water takes some more, and then - sometimes - the soil is just the wrong kind of soil for some of the seeds - even ones you weeded and watered daily - even ones that survived the storms.”

  Cerys turned her gaze from him, back to the book. “So… what?” she asked.

  “Sometimes, you manage to get them to grow, but it’s a lot of effort, and not a lot of reward. Eventually, you find the one thing that grows easy in your plot, and you just keep growing it.”

  “It and it alone?”

  Igor hesitated as he looked at his daughter, noting her sombre gaze towards the book. Wetting his lips, he nodded. “Usually,” he said, and fell quiet for a moment to let his words sink in. “When I was your age, I was going to be a hundred different things. I was sure of it. My father let me believe it. As I grew older, I one day had this moment… where I realised…  _no_. I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to be any of those things. I was going to be a pig farmer - just like my father, just like his father, and like his father before him,” he said. “I really hated my father… for letting me believe I could be anything more.”

  “For giving you false hope,” Cerys said with a sigh. Igor nodded. “So that’s why you keep telling me I’m going to amount to  _nothing_?” she asked. He nodded again. “And you thought that would work? You thought I would shrug and say, oh! Well I guess that’s that, then. Time to put on my leggings and grab my shovel?”

  “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t hate me when the time came and you realised this is your lot in life,” he said. “My father and I didn’t end on good terms. I regret that.”

  Cerys shook her head and scoffed. “But it’s  _not_ my lot in life. I’m  _not_  a pig farmer.” She gripped the book in both hands. “I’m taking  _steps_. I’m working  _hard_  to… to  _better_ myself… To be the version of me I dream about. I learned to  _read_. I’m going to get a job at the courthouse… and I’m going to work there until I die, and I’m going to solve  _mysteries_ , and I’m going to do  _good_.” Turning her head, she stared at Igor who looked at her with such sympathy in his eyes, she very nearly hit him with the book.

  With a painfully patronising pat upon her back, Igor nodded to his daughter. “You water those seeds, sunshine,” he said before standing up. He stretched, cracking his neck and arms before heading back towards the barn, leaving Cerys to stare at his back in disbelief and horror. It didn’t make sense. He was wrong. She  _would_  be different. She  _had_  to be. There had to be more to her life than  _pig_  farming. This couldn’t be it.

  Her gaze fell to the book in her lap, her hand pressed against its cover. Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, she cracked it open again, and plucked one of the loose scraps of paper from between the pages.

  “They placed a circle around the ruins. Sometimes, some of them moved. Surely, no one could truly believe this would save them, were the wound to reopen,” she said, reading the words aloud. She scoffed and leaned back upon the bench. It creaked beneath her. Wetting her lips, her eyes narrowed, as if focusing harder on the paper might somehow make it less of a bewildering statement.

  Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, she considered Shandri’s offer to go speak to her sister, Ciara. But then, she remembered her father’s painfully uninspiring thoughts. This translation made no sense, and while she supposed it might make more sense within the context of the others, or if she knew where in the book it belonged, she didn’t have the mental energy to investigate. Even so much as looking at Diero’s handwriting sent her stomach twisting in all sorts of uncomfortable ways.

  Rising to her feet, she slid the parchment back between the pages and circled the cottage, before heading in, and up to her room. She closed the door behind her, and placed the book on her bed. Her floor was barely visible beneath the mess of paper. She couldn’t place why they reminded her so much of Diero, but regardless, it was an unpleasant feeling. She knelt down and started to gather each sheet up.

  It took her until the sky turned a dim sort of pale, but eventually, she had a neat stack of papers tucked away in one corner of her bedroom, the book resting beside them. She rose to her feet, and brushed herself down. The scent of her mother’s cooking reached her nose, and while she was loathe to join her parents for a meal, the violent rumbling in her stomach gave her little choice but to.

  Her parents were both already sat at the table when she arrived downstairs. They looked to her, briefly, before going back to converse about Lavinia Greebottle’s  _utterly embarrassing_  new hairstyle. Cerys almost felt sorry for the woman, but then remembered how unpleasant the halfling often was, and any sympathy she had dissipated like a hand through smoke. She sat down at the table.

  Ann waited until Cerys was settled before dishing up the stew into three bowls, and placing a slice of bread beside each. Cerys half-smiled in appreciation, though her gut was still turning over.

  “We need to talk, dear,” she said. Cerys nodded. “Your father and I… we feel you’ve been behaving…  _oddly_  recently.” Cerys nodded again. “While we are glad you’re finding something to do with your time, we can’t help but worry that this newfound obsession with Mr Astorio is only going to end in tears.”

  Cerys remained silent for a moment, studying the way her mother prepared to recoil away from Cerys’ inevitable outburst, but the outburst never came. Shrugging, Cerys swallowed a spoonful of stew. It was too salty. “You’re right,” she said upon finishing her mouthful.

  Both Igor and Ann twitched. “I beg your pardon?” Ann said.

  “I said you’re right,” Cerys repeated. “I think perhaps I  _have_  spent too much time with Mr Astorio,” she said. “We’ve…” She paused, looking to her father. He watched her back with curiosity. “We’ve all done some rather rash things, recently. If we’d just been more honest… if we’d behaved like a family… perhaps things would have happened differently,” she said. “So, if you’d like a hand on the farm, just tell me what to do.”

  The Joneses sat in stunned silence. Igor put his arm around Cerys and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Cerys did not fight back, or slip out of his grasp, instead choosing to sit motionless. The rest of the meal was consumed without so much as a word from any of them. Ann took the bowls when they had each finished, and Igor went to sit in his armchair, leaving Cerys alone at the table.

  She let her hair down, and ran her fingers through the thick brown tangle, before rising to her feet, and heading up to her bedroom. Stripping down, she threw herself onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling until she was dizzy, then rolled onto her side.

  She could just make out, by the dim light of evening, the stack of papers and the book, and her eyes pricked with tears. She pressed her trembling lips together and swallowed hard, as if she might swallow the emotions.

  “So help me,” she whispered, “if you cry now…” She did not finish her thought. The bed creaked as she rolled onto her other side to stare at the wall, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned. She shook her head and closed her eyes.


	18. Rite of Passage

  Cerys’ skin was stone cold when she awoke. The birdsong beyond the windows was grating and unwelcome in her tired state. It took her a few moments to realise it was not the birdsong that had roused her from her slumber, but instead a loud rapping at her door.

  Her stomach turned over. Her parents seldom bothered her in her room unless it was urgent. Jumping to her feet, she tore the blanket from her bed and wrapped it around herself, before stumbling groggily towards the door. Upon opening it, she came face to face with both her parents, fully dressed. In her mother’s hand was a mug of steaming  _something_.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her heart racing. They watched her back, evidently confused by her panic.

  “You said wanted to help with the pigs,” her father said. Her mother held the mug out for her to take. Cerys wriggled around until she was able to hold the blanket in one hand, freeing her other hand to take the mug.

  Looking down at its contents she found an unappetising, watery porridge. “Oh,” she said, somewhat stunned by the whole ordeal. She  _had_  said that, hadn’t she? Inhaling sharply through her nose, she turned her gaze back to her parents and nodded. “I’ll just get dressed then, shall I?”

  “Don’t forget to drink your porridge,” her father said and sauntered off, leaving his wife and daughter alone. Cerys was certain she never wanted to hear the phrase ‘ _drink your porridge_ ’ ever again, for she was certain porridge should be impossible to  _drink_  in the first place. She nodded all the same, and turned to look at her mother.

  “And don’t forget to put some trousers on, dear,” Ann said. Cerys shook her head in confusion. “You’ll have a hard time in your skirts.”

  “I… Well… To be quite frank, mother, I wouldn’t be caught dead in trousers,” she said.

  Ann laughed. “Well, that’s just as well,” she said, “because if you wear a skirt, you might just slip over and crack that dense skull of yours right open.”

  Cerys’ lips pursed. She glanced over her shoulder at her dresser. Wearing trousers would be quite a difficult task considering she didn’t actually  _own_  any.

  “Borrow some of your father’s,” her mother said before she could voice her concern. “You’ll never fit into mine with  _your_  waist.”

  Cerys rolled her eyes before looking back to her mother. She smiled a smile most false, and nodded. “Right you are then, mother,” she said, before taking a step back and shutting the door before the woman could so much as turn around to leave.

  As the door clicked shut, she heard her mother grumble something beneath her breath about how she’d been cursed with an ungrateful child, and Cerys could do nothing to hide the curling lip of an unpleasant grin. She threw the blanket onto her bed, and lifted the cup to her lips before throwing her head back and swallowing the porridge in one go, lest she vomit after the first sip.

  Her throat shuddered, and flooded her mouth with saliva as she prepared to throw up. After swallowing a good two or three dozen times, her throat calmed down, and she kept the porridge down. If she was going to help her parents out, they were all going to have to negotiate as far as breakfast was concerned, she wasn’t sure she could do such watery porridge for the rest of her life, and even if she  _could_  grow used to it, she had yet to be convinced she should have to.

  Cerys had to belt her father’s trousers to keep them up. While she and her father were similar in height, they were not even close to being similar in size. Her father was a square-ish man, and - being a man - he had neither hips nor a waist, and as such, his trousers were not designed for Cerys’ more womanly shape. She rummaged around his drawers for something to wear on top, but ultimately borrowed one of her mother’s tunics. It was only fair. Under no circumstances was she going to get any of her own clothes covered in mud.

  As she stepped around the side of the cottage, and headed towards the sty, her mother recognised the tunic, and her features donned a sour expression, although she said nothing on the matter. Her father, on the other hand, raised his hand to stop her as she attempted to climb the stile into the paddock beyond.

  “Ah, ah, ah! Stop right where you are,” he said. Cerys froze on the spot in a most uncomfortable position, and awaiting further command. Sighing in relief, Igor shook his head. “You’ve got to come in slower than that, else you’ll spook the piglets,” he said.

  Cerys rolled her eyes and slowed her movements, shooting her father a pointed look to ask if this pace were more satisfactory. He nodded.

  “Much better,” he said. “It’s also nice if you talk to them.”

  “I beg your pardon,  _what_?” she snapped. “Talk to them?”

  “Yes, talk to them.”

  “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to say?” she asked. “I have nothing to say to a  _pig_  of all things.”

  “They’re not  _things_ ,” Ann hissed. “They’re beautiful little piglets,” she added in a croon. Cerys shook her head in disbelief.

  “I’m not talking to your pigs,” she said, climbing the rest of the way into the pigsty. Her foot sank into the mud, further than she had expected, and she wobbled on the spot, her arm flailing for the fence. She grabbed it just in time to catch herself before she fell, and lowered her other foot into the mud, slower than the first.

  “Well, would you look at that, Ann?” Igor said, gesturing to his daughter. His usually grouchy face sported an uncharacteristically doting smile. “Our daughter is ankle-deep in mud.”

  “I never thought we’d see this day, Igor. I thought it would take one of us dying - probably you - before she realised where she belongs,” Ann said. Cerys glared. She did  _not_  ‘belong’ in a pigsty.

  “I know the feeling - wait! Why me? Why not you?”

  “Never mind that, dear. Come on, Cerys - we won’t be too mean on your first day, will we, Igor?” She gestured for Cerys to follow her as she moved through the mud with relative ease towards the barn. Cerys trudged after her, struggling to lift her feet out of the mud.

  She had never before admired the strength of her mother’s legs, but watching her mother move through the mud with such ease caused a small deal of envy to flare up inside her. Furthermore, she had never before realised just how good her mother was at washing mud out of clothes.

  The mud was shallower as they approached the barn, and upon the stone ramp leading into the barn itself, the mud was entirely dry. Cerys had never been more thankful to be stood upon dry mud.

  “Right,” Ann said, gesturing to a nest of hay and straw. “This is Miri. She gave birth an entire month ago, but you’d think it was only last week with how lazy this old sow is.” A particularly large pig lay amongst the bedding. She was so large, in fact, Cerys might have assumed she was still pregnant. Three smaller pigs lay beside her in the cool shade. Cerys did not blame them for not wishing to brave the summer heat, even if the summer was winding to a close.

  “They’re supposed to have finished weaning, so if you see them trying to squeeze any more out of Miri, you put a stop to that.”

  “How?” Cerys asked, cocking a brow. “Short of picking the damned thing up, I’m not sure-”

  “That’s exactly what you do. Pick the pig up, and move it away.”

  Cerys stared at her mother, utterly unimpressed at the idea of picking a pig up. “So… I just… watch the pigs and pick them up if they try to… have a snack?” she asked.

  Ann laughed and elbowed her daughter who stumbled to the side and rubbed her arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. You also need to clean this place out, it’s covered in feces,” she said. Cerys grimaced. “You know where the shovels are, don’t you, dear?” It wasn’t a question. “Well, if you get stuck, just give me a shout.”

  With that, Ann was gone, leaving Cerys alone in the barn with three piglets and Miri the pig. She took a deep breath, an act she immediately regretted as she inhaled the foul stench of pig excrement.

  “Oh, gods!” She spluttered, squeezing her eyes shut at the vile smell, at which point a fly collided with the bare skin on the back of her neck. She sighed, a heavy sigh, and stormed over to the far side of the barn, where a collection of shovels lay against the wall. She grabbed the closest one and stormed back over to the pigs.

  As she stepped into the bedding, one of the piglets stood up, wandered over to her, and flopped down, before proceeding to roll onto her foot.

  “Please move,” she said, but it remained exactly where it was. “I said  _move_.” Nothing. “I swear to the gods - if we were not  _such devout Chaunteans_  in this family, you would be my dinner tonight.” It looked up at her. “ _What_?” he asked, but it remained both still and silent. Scoffing, she kept her foot as still as she could manage, and proceeded to shovel up the obvious droppings in her field of vision.

  Dinner that night was the same as the previous night, and despite her attempts at negotiation, breakfast the following morning was - once again - watery porridge. The sensation of swallowing gritty, lumpy water was even worse now that Cerys was anticipating it, and it took all her strength to not regurgitate it - and last night’s dinner - right onto the path that led to the sty.

  Once again, she was sent to the barn to shovel dried pig excrement into sizable piles, and then shovel those piles into large hessian sacks. She dared not ask what her parents planned to do with it once it was in the sacks, lest she learned something she would never be ready to know.

  She wasn’t sure which part of this task she loathed more; the physical aspect or the nauseating smell of manure, or if she simply hated both in equal measure. No. She did know. It was neither the manure not the exhaustion, but the smug look of satisfaction upon her parents’ faces. That was what she hated most. Still, so long as they said nothing, she figured she could probably learn to ignore it, like she had done with every other little thing they did that she disapproved of.

  It came as both a surprise and a relief when, around noon on the second day, her mother came in and told her to make herself look at least somewhat presentable, though the way in which she had said it left Cerys suspecting that even on a good day, she would never be able to meet her mother’s impossible standards.

  Wrapping a blanket around her arms in a sorely vain attempt at masking both the sight and scent of pig excrement, she left through the barn’s side exit, rather than heading out into the mud. It was there, she came face to face with an almost unrecognisably clean Paelias Meliamne.

  “What a bizarre turn of events,” he said, looking down at a rather dishevelled Cerys. She said nothing in return, and instead watched him closely. “Something wrong, Jones?”

  “Well, I’m still trying to figure out if you’re the Paelias Meliamne I met a mere few days ago, or whether he has a far more respectable twin,” she said. He scoffed. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  With a shrug, he inclined his head towards where Igor was working near the house, glancing over nervously, every so often, at his daughter and the drunk. “You said you’d get him off my back. I wanted to see if you’d kept your word,” he said, before reaching into a tooled leather bag sporting an ornate design on the front. He retrieved several scraps of parchment and handed them over to Cerys, who took them and recognised them immediately as the pieces she’d given to him the other night. “Also, I finished.”

  “Oh.” Somewhat surprised, she flicked through them. Beneath each illegible script was a careful and neat translation in a hand so beautiful she had yet to be convinced Paelias Meliamne had penned it himself.

  “I wanted to ask you a question, Jones.”

  She tore her gaze from the wad of parchment and turned it up to Paelias. She had been right. With his face washed, his hair brushed, and a clean set of clothes, he looked rather much like a statue, and she was left wondering what had happened to him to leave him drinking in the company of men who could never so much as aspire to the air of nobility Paelias carried about him.

  “Diero. He wanted this work done, didn’t he?” he asked.

  “He did, yes.”

  “I’m not going to try and tell you what you can and can’t do, but were I you… I’d be careful around that son of a-”

  Cerys cleared her throat. “Is something wrong with Mr Astorio, Mr Meliamne?” she asked. “If he has upset you, perhaps it would do you better to speak with  _him_  about it.”

  Paelias snorted. “Diero cares more about his precious mysteries than he cares about you. Whatever he’s told you - he feels nothing for you - you’re a tool. Nothing more.”

  With a wry laugh, Cerys raised one brow and shrugged. “Mr Astorio has told me nothing, and I am not sure just what it is you are insinuating, Mr Meliamne, but my dealings with Mr Astorio are purely business related. In that regard, we are both tools to one another. Nothing more.”

  Paelias sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re a girl with more than half a brain, Jones.”

  “Woman,” she said.

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Now don’t you have some awful harp music to be listening to? Or does it all fade into the background when you’ve heard so much of it?” she asked.

  Paelias’ brow furrowed. “I don’t lecture you about what you do in your own time, Jones,” he said, looking her up and down, seeing the mud past the blanket. She averted her gaze in shame. “Look, all I’m saying is… when you puzzle  _that_  riddle out,” he said and paused to tap on the parchment in her hands with his own slender finger, “I’m in.”

  “In? In what?”

  “The adventure. Count me in.”

  Cerys laughed. “ _Adventure_?” she asked incredulously. “What on in the  _world_  makes you think this had anything to do with an adventure?”

  Paelias plucked the parchment from her grasp before she had time to register what he was even doing. He flicked through the pages and pulled one out, seemingly at random, before holding it back out for her to take. “Read that and tell me this isn’t going to be an adventure.”

  Startled, Cerys blinked and took it from him. Her gaze wandered the scrawlings, before finally reaching the translation beneath.

  As if memorised, Paelias read aloud the words on the scrap as Cerys read along with her eyes. “There, we gazed into the nine hells, and as it gazed back, we felt a presence upon us, perhaps  _amongst_  us. We had no choice but to collapse the door, lest whatever terrors that dwelt within escaped, and we set guards about the collapse, though what good it would do, not one of us was convinced.”

  Cerys suppressed a shiver. “ _Oh.._.” Swallowing hard, she turned her gaze back up to Paelias, who held the rest of the scraps out for her to take. She was hesitant. “Are they all like this?” she asked.

  With a grim smile, he nodded. “Yeah. Some are worse.” She took the paper from him, and he took a step back. “I don’t know where they’re talking about. What did the rest of the book say?”

  “Nothing like this, I can assure you,” she said and sighed a heavy sigh. “The rest of the book was simply about the life of Khelben Arunsun.”

  “Blackstaff.”

  “Yes.”

  “What has any of this got to do with Blackstaff?” he asked. Cerys shrugged. “Well… good luck with this - and when you find out where we’ve got to go, you come find me.” With that, Paelias nodded and took another step away, before turning to head - presumably - back to the Seven-Stringed Harp, leaving Cerys in the doorway to the barn with a wad of translated passages in her hand, and absolutely no idea what to do with them.


	19. Organised Mess

  The scuffed wood of the downstairs table was visible only in small patches, peeking out from between the papers that littered its surface. Ann Jones scowled from where she sat, in her usual position on the bench. Cerys did not notice her mother’s sour expression, too absorbed in the mystery before her to pay attention to either of her parents, not that she would have paid it much mind had she noticed it anyway.

  She had organised the table into what her father felt was a mess, but there was some structure to the mess. The mess was more rectangle-shaped than mess-shaped, though Ann Jones saw fit to disagree. Many of the passages bore some reference to the Hells, though she got the feeling they did not all reference the same place, else there were a disproportionate amount of mention of the Hells.

  And so, Cerys had done her best to find similarities and links in the passages. Some mentioned the ocean, some mentioned stone, and some mentioned a forest. She had separated these and placed them at points in the rectangle. Of course, there were a number of passages that could refer to just about anything - any of these themes. All passages referencing the Hells, she had placed at the fourth point in the rectangle.

  “You don’t seem to be very good at this, sunshine,” Ann said. Cerys raised one finger to silence her, as she desperately attempted to generate ideas - anything to give her any insight into what she was looking at. Ann did not take her daughter’s cue to be quiet. “You just seem to have a lot in this corner, and not much else in the other corners.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Cerys said through gritted teeth. “I’m  _trying_  to understand why, so if you wouldn’t mind being quiet, that would be-”

  “Now, now. There’s no need to get angry with your mother because you’re not as good as you’d thought you’d be at this,” Igor chimed in from over by the fire, where he sat in his armchair, his toes outstretched towards the flames.

  Idly, Ann picked up one of the scraps and turned it over in her hands, running her finger along the text, as if she might be able to somehow read it through touch. “So what’s this one about?”

  Cerys pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath before reaching out to take it back from her mother. She glanced at the text as it turned in the woman’s fingers. “A forest, where the trees move as they please,” she said. “Now, pass it back - that’s an important piece in my categorising process.”

  Ann scoffed at the sound of that. “Sunshine, I’m not sure anyone believes there’s any kind of  _process_  to this.” It was Cerys’ turn to glower. “I’m quite sure  _you_  don’t even believe that, do you?”

  “Please, just hand it back over,” she said. Ann rolled her eyes and obliged, though she picked another up from another corner.

  “What about this one?”

  “Towering walls of stone that cast a shadow upon a shrine to Tempus.”

  Ann put it back and picked up another. “This one?”

  “A child sat upon the end of a pier, dipping his toes into a churning ocean.”

  “And-”

  Before Ann could even pick the final corner piece up, Cerys slapped her hand down on top of it. She stared her mother in the eye. “A man with a harp trying to sooth a red-skinned monstrosity with a song, only to have his head torn from his shoulders by the creature’s claws.”

  Ann pulled her hand in close to her chest. “Whatever in the  _world_  are you reading, Cerys?” she asked, before looking over to Igor who shook his head in disapproval.

  “We should never have let her buy that book about the rainy dark elf.”

  “The  _what_?” Cerys asked, features screwing up in utter confusion.

  “Drizzle. Whatever he was called. Our lives have only taken a turn for the worse. Ever since you got that book. It’s got you thinking you can be some kind of an adventurer… Like it’s some easy thing. It has a high turnover, you know, Cerys. Lots of adventurers die. You should just stick to pig farming like us.”

  Cerys turned her gaze to the table, though, by the time her eyes made it to the table, it was more a stare than a gaze. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she ignored her father’s words and continued to keep her attention on the various scraps before her.

  She was relieved when the room was filled with the loud sound of knocking at the door, and her mother rose to her feet to answer it. “You’ll have to clean that off the table,” she said stepping around the room. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Before Cerys could protest, Ann opened the door and grunted in surprise. “Mr Astorio!” She gasped. “What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”

  Cerys’ heart skipped a beat. She ducked her head down, despite it doing nothing to aid her situation. Turning to look over her shoulder, she watched her mother most carefully.

  “Mrs Jones,” Diero said. “I was looking for your daughter, actually. I haven’t seen her in two days and was wondering if she was quite well. Is she in?”

  Ann glanced over to her daughter, and found the younger woman shaking her head frantically. Looking back to Diero she cast him a painfully fake smile. “I’m ever so sorry, she’s not in at the moment.”

  “Oh,” Diero said. “Well… I… I was hoping she might join me for dinner. Do you know where I might find her?”

  Ann’s eyes narrowed. Inconspicuously as she could manage, she glanced over at Cerys again who shook her head once more, but Ann ignored her daughter’s protests, and instead glanced the girl up and down, as if gauging how much work it would take to get her clean and smelling less like a pig sty. She looked back to Diero.

  “Of  _course_ she’ll join you for dinner, Mr Astorio. She was just finishing some errands. I will let her know when she is home. Where would you like me to send her?”

  Cerys continued to shake her head, though her mother was no longer looking. Gritting her teeth, she mimicked wrapping her hands around her mother’s throat

  “I was planning to cook.”

  “Great! I’ll send her over your way when she gets back, then!”

  “Oh - I mean… right. Wonderful.”

  “ _Wonderful_ ,” Ann repeated and waved before shutting the door. Cerys tiptoed over to her mother and the two Jones women held their breath in silence. They pressed their ears to the door, listening for the crunch of pebbles underfoot of Diero leaving, before they spoke. “Bath,” Ann said, before Cerys could think up the words to express her own anger. “Now.”

  “I am  _not_  going!” Cerys hissed.

  Ann sneered. “We both know you are,” she said, “after all, you  _are_  my daughter, and we both know neither of us is ready to live down the humiliation of standing up such an  _up_ standing member of our dear society such as Mr Astorio.”

  Cerys glared. “I hope you choke on the  _one_  chunk of lamb in your stew tonight,” she said, clenched fists by her sides.

  Ann laughed. “No you don’t. You’d be lost without your parents.”

  “I’d be happier.”

  “Nonsense. Now, go take that bath. You smell like… like…” Ann’s nose scrunched up, though Cerys was certain it was nothing more than affectation, considering however bad she smelled, her mother was bound to smell worse.

  “Like pig excrement, mother?” Cerys asked in feigned surprise. Ann raised her eyebrows in response, and nodded to a metal tub in the corner of the room. Cerys closed her eyes and sighed. With a great deal of reluctance, she turned to the tub.

  “And don’t forget to clean up your art project on the table,” Ann added heading back to the fire.

  “It’s not an art project,” Cerys muttered beneath her breath.

  “What’s that, sunshine?”

  “Nothing.  _Absolutely_  nothing.”

  It was so late by the time Cerys made it to Diero Astorio’s cottage, the only light in the darkening sky was a spark of gold catching the very edge of everything in its path. Cerys did not mind that she had kept Diero waiting. In fact, there was a rather significant part of her that hoped she was so late he had already eaten, and that she would have to go home. She was wearing her nicer clothes, not that she had many to choose from. Her mother had insisted upon it. Cerys hated that she looked as though she was making an effort.

  The twist of iron that made up the knocker on his front door was cool to the touch as her fingers grazed over it. She did not make it to the first knock, when the door swung inwards to reveal Diero Astorio. His brown hair was something of a mess, and he wore a simple tunic of a mossy green colour.

  “I feel overdressed,” Cerys said, then grimaced. Focusing on her boots, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I mean… You look… fine. I just…”

  “Meanwhile,  _you_  look like you could use a drink,” Diero said, his words accompanied by his familiar chuckle.

  “And if I said I didn’t want one?”

  “Then water for the lady, it is.”

  Cerys allowed the faint smile to creep across her lips. She nodded her head, and Diero stepped aside, giving her room to step into the hallway. She obliged, and was rather suddenly assaulted with a wave of cold air. Goosebumps rose up and down her arms and she shivered. He placed a hand on her forearm. She looked up at him.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  Cerys wasn’t entirely sure  _she_  was glad she’d come. She shrugged as he closed the door behind them, leaving them standing in the dimly lit hallway.

  “So… this way… or…?” Cerys asked, nodding her head down the hallway. Diero smiled and led the way. They passed a door to their right, through which Cerys caught glimpses of armchairs with dark polished wooden frames, and a matching table between them, atop which sat a beautiful brass lamp.

  The next door was to the left. Diero stepped inside, and Cerys followed him. It was dark inside, but Diero waved his hand and countless flames upon the wicks of countless candles flared to life. Their flames flickered for a moment before settling into a gentle sway. The table was set for three, with three sets of polished silverware, reflecting the glinting flames around the room.

  “Are you expecting another?” Cerys asked, placing her hand upon the table. The wood matched that of his sitting room. She did have to wonder how he found the time to keep his home so clean when he worked so hard, but she supposed it likely didn’t have much time to get into any kind of a state when he seemed to spend most of his time away from his home.

  “I had invited Paelias,” he said. Cerys sighed in relief. So this was work-related. Still, Paelias had asked her to not deal with Diero, and she wasn’t sure of how to approach the situation. “However, Paelias declined, so it is just the two of us,” he said.

  “That’s a shame,” she said. “Have you heard from him since I met with him?”

  “No, so I was hoping he would come tonight and tell us of what he’d learned from the passages,” he said. Cerys responded with a noncommittal grunt. “Please,” Diero added, after a moment of silence. He pulled out a chair, revealing a red cushion on the seat. Cerys took her seat and drew breath to speak when she was silenced once more, this time by Diero’s hand upon her shoulder. “I won’t be a minute,” he said, and made a swift exit from the room.

  Cerys sat alone. She could only just make out the echoes of Diero clattering about in another room. Wetting her lips, she took a deep breath and cast her eyes about her surroundings. The wooden floor beneath was dark, and polished to a high shine, and the walls were dark with a dark wooden panelling, and the sideboard and mantle the candles sat upon were dark and wooden, and the only real colour in the entire room was that of the chair seats and a large painting, from which four faces peered down at Cerys from above the fireplace.

  She recognised one of the children in the painting as Diero. The others were presumably his parents and his sister. Each of them had the same eyes, the same shape, the same crease, the same honey brown colour, which struck Cerys as most peculiar. She tore her gaze from the painting as the door creaked open behind her to reveal Diero shuffling backwards into the room plate precariously balanced upon either hand.

  “Your eyes are blue,” she said. He blinked a few times in confusion as he put one plate down in front of her, before taking a seat at the head of the table.

  “Well… I thank you for informing me.”

  “No,” Cerys said. “I just mean…” Her gaze drifted to the painting, and her brow furrowed. She looked back to Diero at the sound of his warm chuckle.

  “Not many people notice that,” he said, taking his knife and fork in hand. Cerys looked down at the plate for the first time. Meat. Actual meat. Her mouth watered at the cloying scent of cranberries, and her gaze wandered about the range of vegetables populating the plate. She felt almost guilty at the thought of eating it, knowing her parents would be fighting over who had more flecks of meat in their flavoured water.

  “Is everything alright?” Diero asked. “Oh. Please don’t say you don’t like roast.”

  “I…  _love_  roast,” Cerys said, forcing herself to look away from the plate and at Diero whose eyes did their best to conceal his nerves. “My mother was just sitting down to eat when I left, and…” She swallowed. “I’m sorry.” Pausing, to take a deep breath, she gestured up to the painting, whilst keeping her focus on the table. “Your eyes.”

  Diero hesitated, his hand lingering somewhere between his personal space and hers. “Yes,” he said, somewhat uncertainly. “I was a nervous child. I wouldn’t look at the painter. The rest of my family, well…  _their_  eyes-”

  “Brown,” Cerys said. “Where are they?”

  “Their eyes?” Diero asked, teasingly.

  Cerys gave him a weak grin. “Well, I would hope their eyes are wherever  _they_  are, so yes. Their eyes.”

  “I haven’t spoken to them in a number of years,” Diero said, before quickly adding, “not by choice.”

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry,” Cerys said, finally convincing herself to destroy the work of art before her. Her eyes widened in shock as she bit down into a slice of meat, expecting tender and juicy, only to be caught off-guard by the way the meat bit back. Her eyes widened, her jaw clenching.

  “Are you alright, Cerys?” Diero asked.

  Cerys nodded, though she managed only a high-pitched whine most unbecoming of a woman her age, and there was a moment where she worried she might have to spit her mouthful out. Diero watched her in apparent amusement, as she drummed her thumb against her thigh, chewing through the pain. At long last, when she had swallowed, she took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply.

  Diero inclined his head curiously, and she shot him back a warning look. He leaned back in his chair in evidently entertained by the whole ordeal. Cerys took a deep breath and shook her head.

  “That… That was a tad peppery.” It was all she could manage to say, the insides of her mouth still alight.

  “Just a little?” he asked.

  Cerys fought the smile creeping onto her face, but it was a battle she swiftly forfeited. “Just a little,” she said.


	20. Star-Crossed

  After dinner, they retired to the sitting room, both still rather amused by Cerys’ pained reactions to the heat of what ought to have been a rather safe dish.

  “I must apologise,” Diero said as he squatted beside the brass lamp. Producing a coin - from Cerys could only guess where - he uttered a word, causing light to flare out from it. He flicked it into the lamp and light streamed out through the cutaway shapes in the brass, casting a thousand stars across the walls.

  She looked to Diero, taking him in by the warm light of the stars scattered across his face. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. He rose to his feet, and watched her back, gesturing to the chair behind her.

  “Shall we sit?” he asked. Cerys bowed her head and took her seat. Diero followed suit. “I was rather worried you wouldn’t come,” he said.

  “What ever gave you that impression, Mr Astorio?”

  “Well, I’d heard you speaking, but your mother looked into the room and then told me you were out,” he said, rather bluntly. Cerys choked on her own breath, heat rushing to her cheeks.

  “Well… I…”

  Diero laughed. “Flustered is a good look for you,” he said. “It is no worry,” he added, waving his hand in dismissal. He sank back into the red armchair and crossed one leg over the other. Cerys kept her knees firmly pressed together. “I am sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you,” he said.

  She shook her head, firmly. “I  _should_  be embarrassed,” she said. “It was incredibly rude of me. I was… a little busy.”

  “A little busy avoiding me?”

  “No,” she gasped. “Not at all. I’ve just been somewhat preoccupied with…” She hesitated.

  “With?”

  “I… saw Paelias today,” she admitted. Diero’s brow furrowed in interest. He nodded for her to continue. “He brought around the translations. They are… disturbing. I’m still trying to make any sense of them,” she said. “I’ve narrowed them down to four locations.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, Diero gestured for her to continue. Cerys took no issue with telling Diero of what she’d learned, but she did not exactly wish to argue with Paelias later when he found out she was still working with Diero.

  “Somewhere by the ocean, somewhere in the forest, somewhere of stone, and…” She faltered. Diero’s eyes narrowed. “The hells,” she said, her brows knotting together. “Some of it… Well, as I said, it’s very disturbing.”

  Diero nodded in understanding and leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow, you should bring the passages here. We can use the dining room to go over them,” he said. Cerys nodded in agreement. “However, that accounts for your whereabouts the past couple of days.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was expecting you at the courthouse yesterday,” he said, though he quickly leaned forwards again, reaching out to touch her knee. She crossed her legs as his fingers made contact. “Of course we had no arrangement - that sounded like an accusation. I did not mean for it to come across that way. You are - of course - permitted to do whatever you wish with your time. I only mean to say I enjoy the time we’ve been spending together, and I was eager to see you again yesterday, and so I was disappointed you did not show.”

  Cerys stomach churned, her body tense beneath his touch. She relaxed only very slightly when he removed his fingers from her knee. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I just… I wanted to be sure it wasn’t something I had done,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Of course it wasn’t. You did nothing wrong, I just-”

  “Because I know you’re concerned about my health,” he said with such sincerity Cerys faltered. Her eyes narrowed. She had not thought he’d actually believed her when she had lied about checking upon his breathing. It made little sense for him to still be playing along with it. “I want to assure you... I am fine, Cerys. I promise.”

  “I am sorry, I don’t wish to make you speak of this if it is difficult,” she said, in the hopes he would change the subject, but instead Diero shook his head.

  “I have come to terms with the dire state this body is in, Cerys. It is no longer a difficult subject. We are - after all - mortals,” he said, and then scoffed. “Well… most of us.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, there are always powerful wizards - oh, and fey - and who could forget liches,” he said. She looked at him, lost. “Are you alright?”

  “Well I mean they live a long time, but they’re still mortal,” Cerys said.

  “Not really. No matter how many times you kill a lich, he’ll keep coming back.”

  Cerys frowned. “Forever?”

  “Well… yes. Forever.”

  She leaned back in the armchair, her gaze wandering the room. “Can you imagine that?” she asked and shook her head. “Living forever. I mean... just imagine how many languages you could learn - how many books you could read.” Reaching out with her hand, she turned the brass lamp, sending the tiny stars twisting around the room “And as new languages form, new books would be written, and it would never end. You could build a massive library, just filled with copies of each and every book, every scroll, every text.”

  Diero cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised her every movement. She caught him looking, and brought her hand back into her lap with some haste. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were considering it.”

  Cerys snorted. “Of course not,” she said. That was a lie. Well, partially a lie. She had neither the time nor ability to figure out how to immortalise herself, and it had sounded most silly when he’d said it out loud. “I meant only to say I see how immortality could tempt a man.”

  “Tempt a man to rip out his own soul, you mean.”

  “I… what?”

  “Eternal life for someone who by any right should be mortal… it comes at great cost,” Diero said, and smiled somewhat sombrely.

  “I see.” Cerys looked away. “Well, I don’t know about removing one’s soul, so I cannot comment on that, but I envy the elves. For most of us, our lives are a mere heartbeat. What can we hope to accomplish in such a short amount of time?” she asked. Sighing, her posture slouched.

  “You’re not wrong, Cerys,” Diero said, and she looked up to find him smiling fondly. “But you’re being rather foolish. You are right. This life - this human life - is ever so short. That’s why humans have accomplished great feats of magic, architecture, civilisation, farming, families -  _love_  - and here you are, wasting that finite amount of time you will get in this world... mourning a life that doesn’t exist for you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it’s precisely our short lives that give us our edge - our desperation to achieve something, to do something so phenomenal we won’t be forgotten. It has made us competitive, and competition is the greatest ally to progress,” he said and looked away. “If you always have tomorrow to do something, why would you ever do it today? In an elf’s lifetime, he may very well achieve far less than a human. So many old elves I’ve known have lamented that they left it too late to start anything.”

  His words left her harrowed. They left her gut twisting and dizzy. She stared at him. Wetting her lips, she swallowed and grimaced.

  “Did you agree to help out on your family’s farm because you feel disillusioned, Cerys?” he asked. She flinched and inhaled sharply, her mouth flapping as she desperately searched for a retort. When her search bore no fruit, she pressed her lips together until they turned white. “Do you think there’s nothing else in this life? That everything else is just a dream, or that it happens to only to those who are  _chosen_  for greatness?” he asked. “I’ve seen you reading that book about Drizzt Do’Urden, Cerys.” He paused to lace his fingers together, and as he sat back in his chair, he brought his hands under his chin. “His life was rather extraordinary from the beginning, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

  “Well… yes. There were some things about him that seem to have set him apart from the other drow, certainly,” she agreed.

  “What about Blackstaff?”

  “ _Chosen by a god_ ,” Cerys scoffed.

  “He was around fifty years old when that happened. He  _earned_ that. He had a finite life, and he worked hard to make it count. He was brought back to life as a chosen of Mystra  _because_  of that,” he said. “You taught yourself to read. You’re clearly a clever gi-”

  “Wo-”

  “Woman. I want to give you this opportunity at the courthouse. I want you to make a difference - if not in the world, then at least in our dear town. You can’t do that in a pigsty, Cerys.”

  “What about the difference I make to my parents’ lives?” she asked.

  Diero sighed. “That’s the choice we all make. But they’re living the life they want to lead, Cerys. They’re not living the life  _you_  want them to lead. Why should you live the one they want  _you_  to lead? How long will you wait before you take control of your own life?” he asked. “Will you leave it until it’s too late? You can’t afford to do that. Your life will be short - a heartbeat, as you put it. Do not waste it living up to your neck in disappointment and misery.”

  Cerys shot to her feet. Taking in staggered breaths, she eyed the door. “I really must be going, Mr Astorio.”

  “Diero,” he said, and she turned her head towards him, locking gazes with him. She did not respond. “I can’t force you to live the life I want for you, Cerys. I wouldn’t, even if I could. This has to be your choice… I just don’t want you to die a nameless villager of Secomber, forgotten by all because you spent your days in a pigsty, and your nights alone, reading books about adventures you swear sound terrible, but secretly wish you could go on, meeting hags with riddles only you could solve, and amassing a library any scholar would be envious of.”

  “I…”

  “It has to be your choice. I just really hope you come here tomorrow, and that you bring those passages, because while I’m certain you could figure it out on your own… I wasted my life. It took being accused of a crime I didn’t commit for me to really find my passion, and I’d like to be part of yours,” he said.

  “Good night,  _Diero_ ,” Cerys said. She stepped around the arm chairs, heading straight for the door. She did not stop to see if he followed, and continued on to the front door, stepping beyond into the cool evening. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, she pulled the door closed behind her, and flinched as the light streaming through the shutters of Diero Astorio’s sitting room window extinguished, plunging her into a dark evening, and even darker thoughts.


	21. Mysterious Ways

  Cerys slammed the front door behind her, causing the worthless tat - precariously balanced on the shelf to her left - to rattle. Ann and Igor both looked to the door, where their daughter stood, brows knotted in a display of her unease. Taking a deep breath and preparing herself for the incoming interrogation, she turned her gaze to her mother.

  However, Ann remained silent. Glancing towards the table, she plucked one of the scraps of parchment still laying on its surface, and closed her fist around it. Cerys’ brow furrowed, her lips pressed together. Ann avoided eye contact as she turned in her seat and flicked the scrunched up ball of parchment into the flames. Not wanting to be involved in the inevitable argument, Igor redirected his attention back to the drink in his hand.

  Cerys found herself speechless, blinking rapidly, as if somehow it might reveal some illusion, and that she would spot the parchment in its rightful place once more. The scene before her did not change. She shook her head, and drew breath to speak, but could not find the words.

  “I told you,” Ann said, finally meeting her daughter’s gaze. “ _I_  thought I was very clear. Wasn’t I clear, Igor?”

  Igor’s shoulders tensed as he realised he could not avoid the situation, no matter how much he wished he could just be left alone. Cerys suspected he regretted ever getting married or having a child. She, too, regretted him ever getting married and having a child.

  “About what?” he asked, somewhat nervously.

  Ann’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched. “About our slob of a daughter cleaning the table,” she hissed, before turning her attention back to Cerys. “I  _told_  you to clean the table.”

  Cerys gasped in disbelief. “You…” she half-whispered. Swallowing, she spoke again, this time with more strength in her voice. “You also told me to take a bath, you also told me to do my hair, to change my clothes, to go to a dinner I didn’t want to go to, with a man I didn’t want to see.”

  The two women fell into a tense silence, glaring daggers across the room at one another, until Cerys’ features fell calm. Her gaze wandered the pot that hung above the fire, and she made her way over to it. Ann watched her, but did nothing to intercept her until it was too late and Cerys was already throwing the wooden spoon from the pot into the flames beneath.

  She shot to her feet, gasping in horror. “What is  _wrong_  with you?” she shrieked.

  “What is wrong with  _me_?” Cerys laughed. “What’s wrong with  _you_?” she asked. “I can’t tell what you want. I  _feel_  like you can’t bear the thought of me failing because it would reflect badly upon  _you_ , but you’re such a  _narcissistic_  woman you can’t actually bear the thought of me  _succeeding_  because it reminds you of your utter failure of a life.”

  “ _My_  failures?” Ann scoffed. “Coming from the girl who lies in ‘til midday and… and spends her afternoons arranging pieces of paper on a table,” she spat, gesturing wildly at the rest of the scraps upon the table. She shook her head, her lip curling upwards into a sneer.

  “As opposed to what? Waking up next to a man whose greatest achievement in life is giving up on his dreams to be a… a foul-smelling  _pig farmer_  because he wasn’t good enough to do anything else?” she asked. “You cook the same disgusting  _water_  every single day, and it tastes just as bad each time you cook it. You’d think it impossible to make water inconsumable, but somehow  _you_  manage. I guess you do have a talent after all.”

  Cerys recoiled as a sharp jolt of pain spread across her cheek. Her mother’s hand lingered in the air. She brought her own up to her face, clutching at the warm skin, and remembered Madevic’s words about how she hadn’t looked good with red cheeks. Her gut twisted.

  “At least someone was willing to marry me, Cerys. You chased away the only man who will ever show any interest in you… because you’d rather own a book,” Ann said, sourly. Cerys’ lips parted as she readied her protest, but Ann cut her off. “Don’t try to fool yourself. You might think you did it for us, but if you’re as clever as you seem to think you are, you could have found another way to help us. No, you wanted that book, Cerys - and all it’s done is drive our family apart.”

  “ _You’ve_  done that,” Cerys whispered. She did her best to ignore the prickling sensation of tears forming in her eyes.

  “But she hasn’t,” Igor said from behind her. “Your mother and I… we work well together, we get on, we  _enjoy_  our lives - we understand our place. We  _like_  this.  _You’re_  the one who doesn’t  _try_  to fit in, Cerys,” he said.

  Cerys pressed her lips together, her gaze still locked with her mother’s until the woman’s shape became little more than a watery blur. She lowered her hand from her cheek. Her fingers twitched, and she grabbed a fistful of her skirt.

  “I don’t get it Cerys,” Igor said. “You just act like a child. All the time.  _All the time_.”

  “Well,  _you_  treat me like one.”

  “Here we go again,” Ann said in a sigh. “It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t Cerys? When are you going to take some responsibility in your life? You want a job? Out there in the big world? With adults? You wouldn’t last five minutes, because no one else is going to put up with  _this_ ,” she said. Cerys drew a trembling breath. Ann groaned. “If you’re going to cry, can you at least go to your room, first?” she snarled.

  Cerys gritted her teeth and scrunched up her nose. “With pleasure,” she muttered before adding under her breath, “it’ll take a miracle to get me to ever  _leave_  again.”

  She pushed past her mother, and gathered up the remaining scraps upon the table. Turning back around, she stormed up to her bedroom, and dropped them onto the bed, before heading for the window. She pressed her burning cheek to the cool glass and bit down on her tongue.

  “Don’t… you…  _dare_ … cry,” she said to herself in a whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

  She remained in place, with her cheek held to the glass until the pain faded and the urge to cry subsided. Pulling herself away from the window, she turned to gaze out of it, but instead found the world outside unfocused; obscured by condensation. She watched, as it began to shrink, and lifted a finger, pressing it to the glass. She drew a crescent moon shape in the centre of the window, surrounded by stars - seven of them - and as she stared at the juvenile masterpiece, she threw herself onto her bed.

  She watched until it faded, and then rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling, picturing her image above her. Eventually the moon disappeared in her vision, leaving only the stars. Seven stars. Her fingers dug into the bedsheets beneath her. Biting her lip, she pushed herself into an upright position, and took a deep breath before closing her eyes.

  “Mystra?” she whispered. “I don’t know if you’re listening… it seems…  _impossible_  given the sheer quantity of people you would have to listen to at once… You’d go insane. Not that I think you’re insane. I don’t think you’re insane, I just… What am I even saying?” She opened her eyes again, jaw tense. The floor beyond her bedroom door creaked and she held her breath. She waited until she heard her parents’ door close before lying back down on her bed. “I just want get that job, and move away from this horrible house, and never come back, and never see these people again,” she said in a sigh. “I just want to solve the-” she stopped abruptly. Her gut twisted.

  Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she turned around and squatted beside it. Gathering up the parchment, she sorted through the wad, leaving all of the references to fire on her bed, and keeping ahold of each passage about the stone, the ocean, or the forest. Turning, she stood and opened her bedroom door just wide enough to squeeze through, and made her way down the stairs as silently as she could manage. She strode to the hearth and took one final long look at the paper in her hand before casting it into the flames.

  The flames licked at the edges of the parchment, blackening them until all that was left was a pale ash that disappeared into the embers. A smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. Brushing her hands together, she turned from the fire and made her way back to her room.

  The next morning, Cerys was awake before either of parents. She waited in silence, listening as they moved about their bedroom wordlessly, their movement betrayed only by the creaking floorboards, and squeak of the door as they took themselves downstairs for breakfast. She dressed herself and made her way to the top of the stairs, where she sat, listening to them make idle smalltalk between mouthfuls of their sips of porridge.

  She waited until she was certain they’d both left for the field round the side of the cottage before collecting her things and heading downstairs. She threw her boots on and took the laces in her fingers. She remained there for a brief moment as she considered it. She knew it was petty, but she let go of the laces all the same, and stood up, leaving her boots unfastened. Grabbing her shawl from the back of the front door, she headed straight for Diero’s cottage.

  The edges of the hydrangea petals had turned brown with the season’s change. As Cerys stared at them, her mind wandered back to the parchment she had burned only last night, and her stomach churned, concerned as to whether she’d done the right thing or not. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath and steeled herself.

  The door opened, though she had not knocked, and Diero stood in the doorway. She turned her head to look at him, and his expression shifted from bewilderment to excitement. “There’s that look,” he said. “There’s the look of a  _woman_  about to solve the mystery of the cosmos itself.”

  Cerys nodded past him, to the hallway, and he stepped aside, allowing her to head past him. She made her way straight for the dining room, and waited for him. It took him a moment longer than she expected, but when he finally wandered into the dining room, he had in each hand a bowl of yoghurt, oats, and fruit.

  He placed one bowl in front of her and gave her shoulder an affectionate rub. She shuddered, but nodded gratefully to him, before dropping her bag onto the table.

  “If we’re going to work together on this, I have some conditions,” she said. His eyes narrowed, but she glowered at him. With a coy smile, he raised his free hand in surrender.

  “Right, right,” he said. “I’d best hear them, then.”

  “First of all, this is  _my_  mystery. You’re helping out,” she said. He bowed his head in mock-deference, and shovelled a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth. “Secondly, I am eating here and you are cooking. If I have to eat watered-down water one more time, I’m going to snap.”

  Diero’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry - watered-down  _what_?”

  “Oh, that’s my mother’s speciality,” she sneered. “Finally… I’m moving in.”

  “I’m… sorry…  _what_?”

  “I can’t concentrate there, I have nowhere to work, and I’m absolutely certain you have a spare room. I’m moving in.”

  Diero blinked a few times. “People will say things, Cerys.”

  “I couldn’t care less what people say. Someone  _always_  has something to say about me, and it’s rarely positive. I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Which do you care more about, solving  _this_? Or avoiding any and all gossip about yourself?” she asked. “Because I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve already heard a great deal of gossip about you, so you might as well just focus your efforts on the puzzle now.”

  Diero choked on his words. “Well… I… I…  _Okay_ , I suppose. I would need a little time to get the room sorted as currently it’s full of…” He hesitated. “Well…  _stuff_.”

  Cerys snorted. “We’ve got a barn like that,” she said, cocking a brow. Diero smiled, sheepishly. “So… we’re in agreement?”

  “We’re in agreement,” he said.

  “Great, now. Look at this,” she said, and pulled out the translated passages from her bag, spreading them across the table. Diero took a step closer to her to peer over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed.

  “Where are the rest?” he asked, gesturing at the array of parchment with his spoon. “There were more than this, weren’t there?”

  “Yes,” Cerys said. “There were passages about a place to do with the ocean, to do with stone, and to do with a forest,” she explained. “But I burned them all.”

  Diero grunted in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?” He looked her up and down, concern taking over his features. Cerys grinned.

  “Because they were misleading. I thought there were four places. The ocean, the stone, the forest, and the hells. But I think they were a distraction. I don’t think those places exist anymore. I think they were each consumed by the hells. We’re looking for places that no longer exist, because they came into contact with the hells,” she said.

  Diero’s eyes narrowed. He placed his bowl down on the table and pushed his glasses further up his nose before resting his hands either side of his bowl. His gaze wandered the mess of parchment, his eyes scanning over each translation.

  “Cerys Jones, you are an actual genius… and  _I_  know where one of those places is,” he said, staring in disbelief. He turned his head to her, and she returned the look, her face lighting up. “This way,” he said and collected the passages from the table, before taking his bowl in his free hand and turning towards the door.

  He led her further towards the back of the house where there were two more doors - one either side of the stairway that sat at the end of the hallway. Through the ajar door on the left, she could see a kitchen her mother would have killed to so much as stand in. The door to the right was closed. Beneath the polished brass doorknob was a keyhole surrounded by a design carved from bone. Diero produced a large key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.

  As the door swung open, the dark hallway was flooded with light. Cerys shielded her eyes for a brief moment, as they adjusted to the light. Blinking a few times, she finally took in the sight before her. It was Diero’s study. Complete with the same dark wood and red upholstery as the other rooms, there was a large desk and chair, and an armchair in another corner. Various maps lined the walls, along with aged parchment pressed into frames. But what stood out to Cerys, most of all, were two large bookshelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. Books sat cover to cover, wedged in tight, and more books lay horizontally atop those, and even more littered the desk and were stacked up on the armchair.

  Her jaw dropped, eyes wide. Swallowing she shook her head, and took a deep breath. “Well then, Diero. We’d best get to it.”


	22. A Friend at Court

  Diero had spent a good twenty minutes searching through his books, plucking seemingly random editions from the shelves; some so small Cerys hadn’t noticed them wedged between the other books, some so substantial Diero had to hold them in two hands. After a great deal of comparing the covers, trying to recall which book he was looking for, he eventually opted for a particularly thick book, whose cover matched the dark red upholstery of Diero’s home.

  The leather creaked in a way Cerys found most satisfying as Diero pulled the cover back. She stopped what she was doing at the sound, and stepped over to beside him. Peering down at the pages, she was relieved to find the book written in the common script. Lifting the book, Diero turned and flinched as he realised she was so close. The breath, with which he had been about to call her, lingered for a moment longer, and a confused silence followed, before he eventually turned his attention back to the book.

  He flicked through the rustling pages until he found what he was looking for, and then handed the tome to Cerys. She took it in her hands, her shoulders lurching forwards under the unexpected weight. Scanning the pages, she read idly, until one passage in particular caught her eye.

  “Harpers?” she asked, tracing the word with her fingers. Head snapping up, she met Diero’s eyes. “I read about them in the-”

  “The book on Blackstaff, yes.” Diero nodded down at the page. “Read.”

  “His name was shrouded in mystery. No two accounts of his appearance seemed to match. Tales of his feats ranged from simple healings, to destroying the city that stood where once had been Ascalhorn,” she read. Her eyes narrowed. She looked up, once more, to Diero, who simply nodded for her to continue. Sighing, she did so. “It is unclear if he aided the Harpers in this endeavour because they asked, or whether it was because Khelben Arunsun requested it of him. However, what is known is that without his aid, the Harpers would have struggled to remedy the scar upon the land that was Hellgate Keep.”

  Diero pulled out the chair from where it was tucked beneath his desk. He sat on it, and looked up at Cerys, though her view of Diero was obscured by the heavy tome in her hands. “You were  _almost_ right, Cerys,” he said. She lowered the book to look at him. “Hells. I don’t blame you, it is an easy mistake to make. However, the hells are home to devils. What we are looking at here, is the abyss,” he paused for what Cerys could only assume was dramatic effect. “Demons.”

  Turning her gaze to the book, she lifted it and read once more. “Baatezu assaulted Ascalhorn. Some say they were drawn to the darkness that grew within the hearts of those who dwelt there, others believe they were summoned there for the sole purpose of destroying the inhabitants. It was some time later, tanar'ri were summoned to fight the baatezu… I’m sorry,  _what_  are baa… baatezu and tanar'ri?” she asked.

  “Baatezu are devils, tanar'ri are demons.”

  “Right,” she said, but it didn’t feel right at all to Cerys. “The tanar'ri won the ensuing battle. It took the Harpers nearly two years muster the power required to develop wards to stop the tanar'ri. They did not succeed in stopping the tanar'ri, but they did manage to prevent them from travelling between their planes, and bringing forth any more of their kind. It was many,  _many_  years later that the Harpers enlisted the help of the Mistmaster. Together, the Harpers and the Mistmaster wielded the Gatekeeper’s Crystal to utterly destroy Hellgate Keep.” Cerys took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Visions filled her mind, visions of a man with his harp clutched close to his chest, his fingers trembling upon the strings as a shadow blotted out the sun, casting him into darkness, his eyes closing as he awaited a fate that did not come swiftly enough. She bit her lower lip. “You’re right,” she whispered. “This is the place. I can feel it.”

  It came as a surprise to Cerys when Diero rose to his feet and took the book from her hands. He closed the cover and placed it down gently upon the table, before giving her shoulder a reaffirming pat. She opened her eyes to the sight of Diero nodding.

  “Hellgate Dell, it is called now. And it is protected by a ring of treants.”

  “A forest… the trees roam as if they are men,” she murmured. Diero inclined his head towards her. “Treants… I’ve heard stories about them.”

  Diero nodded. “Yes. Plants with sentience.”

  “Five of them in a ring, twenty that do not move.”

  He nodded again. “Hellgate Dell.”

  “Then you were right. For I read that on one of the pieces of parchment I burned,” she said. “Hellgate Dell.”

  “It is in the High Forest. Well… on the outskirts, anyway,” he said, and nodded to the map on the wall behind Cerys. She turned around, and took three deliberate steps towards the map. It was painted onto linen, and showed a great deal of the sword coast. She pressed her fingers to it and was surprised to find the material a great deal thicker than she had expected. She could only guess at how much it must have cost him.

  “Where am I looking?” she asked, her eyes wandering the many names scrawled Diero’s hand littering the landscape.

  Diero stepped up behind her and took her wrist. He directed her hand to a small dot along a river. Written beside the mark was ‘Secomber’. “That’s us,” he said. Cerys blinked, and pressed her lips together. That was Secomber. That small dot. Small, insignificant, surrounded by a vast world that could swallow her dear town whole.

  “We might as well not even be here,” she whispered. Diero placed his free hand on the small of her back.

  “Don’t say that,” he whispered back, and she turned her head to look at him. “Maybe Waterdeep, and Neverwinter, and Baldur’s Gate take up so much room, but that doesn’t make small Secomber worth any less, or any less important, or any less formidable,” he said. “Without the Mistmaster, all the Harpers in the world could not have destroyed Hellgate Keep.”

  “One man made so much of a difference?”

  He nodded. “One man,” he whispered.

  Cerys swallowed and nodded back, before turning her attention back to the map. Diero moved her hand northeast until her fingers ghosted over the words ‘Hellgate Dell’.

  “Here,” he said, removing both of his hands from her person. “Now, we’d best get a move on, else we’ll be late,” he said.

  “Late?” she asked.

  “For work.”

  Shaking her head, Cerys’ brow furrowed. “I’m sorry…?”

  “You read the book, Cerys. The job is yours,” he said, then hesitated. “That is, if you still want it.”

  Cerys’ eyes widened. She’d been so wrapped up in the mystery of the book, she’d almost forgotten entirely why she’d picked it up in the first place - most likely because that reason was not for a job, but she wasn’t quite ready to admit that out loud.

  “Of… of course I do. I-I mean… Thank you. I wouldn’t want to be late.”

  “Then let us be off. We can resume our work on this enigma, this evening - after work,” he said. Cerys nodded, eagerly. Diero chuckled and they both gathered their things, before heading out the door and down the path towards the courthouse.

  As they arrived, Cerys saw Arveen Evenwood hanging muslin cloths to dry on a line around the side of the building. She looked up as she spotted Diero and Cerys approaching and nodded to each of them respectively.

  “Morning, Arveen,” Diero called.

  “Good Morning, Mr Astorio,” she said back with a smile, “and you, Miss Jones.”

  “Good Morning, Ms Evenwood.”

  “He’s in the end cell, ready for questioning, Mr Astorio.”

  Diero halted his walk. “You moved him?” he asked, brow furrowed in disapproval. Arveen pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring.

  “There was a lot of blood. I had to clean the cell before it stained.”

  With a sigh, Diero closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His thumb left a thick smear across the right lens of his glasses. “Please tell me you didn’t clean  _him_.”

  Arveen scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me - he wouldn’t let me within five foot of him,” she said, rolling her eyes. She cast Cerys a look, and cocked a brow. “Men,” she said. “All bravado until you try to clean their wounds - then they’re all cowards.”

  “Now, Arveen,” Diero said with a sigh, casting her a warning glance. Arveen closed her mouth, but rolled her eyes at Cerys. Cerys said nothing.

  With another sigh, Diero continued on to the doors of the courthouse, beckoning with his finger for Cerys to follow. With an apologetic smile, she excused herself to Arveen, and trailed after Diero.

  He flung open the doors to the courthouse and made straight for his office, where he hung his coat upon the coat stand, before heading over to his desk. He sat himself down in the chair, and flicked through a stack of papers sitting atop the wood. When he found the one he was looking for, he pulled it out. Placing it on its own, beside the stack he leaned back in his chair.

  “Cerys,” he said. Cerys stood to attention. Diero remained silent for a moment as he reached into a draw to retrieve his pipe and a small tin of tobacco. Cerys couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be less likely to stop breathing in his sleep if only he stopped smoking. The pipesmoke was rather unkind to her own lungs. She could only imagine the havoc it wreaked upon his. After packing his pipe, he finally met her gaze. “A friend of yours is downstairs in the end cell,” he said.

  “A friend?” Cerys asked, attempting to recall  _any_  friend she might have.

  “Yes… that drunken idiot got into a fight, last night. However, he won’t tell us who he fought, and that person has not come forward. I’d very much like to find them and ask them what happened, because we’ve got nothing out of him.”

  Cerys felt her stomach twist at mention of Paelias. She was less than keen on him being considered her friend - especially not if he was going to get into fights.

  “There is a great deal of blood on him. I suspect the vast majority of it belonged to his victim,” he said. “There wasn’t a great deal of facial swelling, although his fists looked somewhat bloody.”

  “What would you have me do?” Cerys asked, not entirely sure what help she could be. Paelias was unlikely to talk to her, especially if he suspected Cerys had told Diero about the translations - and he was certain to suspect as such if Cerys was the one to try and question him.

  “Collect the blood on a damp cloth,” he said.

  “How will that help?” Cerys asked. The mental image of Diero wandering the town, asking anyone who happened to pass by if the blood on the cloth belonged to them was an amusing vision, certainly, but she wasn’t convinced it would yield any results.

  “With magic,” Diero said. “There are spells that can help us locate people, and having something of theirs - a personal item, or something from their body - such as hair or blood - turns such a task rather trivial.”

  Cerys blinked a few times in surprise, but nodded all the same. She hadn’t really thought about using magic to aid in courthouse investigations, though it made sense. “I will get on with that,” she said.

  Diero opened another draw and pulled out a ring of thick iron keys. He sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for, and extended his arm, holding it out for Cerys to take. She stepped forwards and plucked it from his grasp. Once it was firmly in her grasp, he reached into the pocket of his knitted waistcoat and retrieved a handkerchief.

  “Take this. There’s a sink down there. Moisten it and wipe some of the blood from him, then bring it back. If you can get him to tell you who he hurt, that’ll make this a lot easier. If nothing else, then at least  _why_.”

  Cerys nodded again, and took the handkerchief in her free hand. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said and turned to leave.

  She did not struggle to find the door to the cellar. As she wandered down the hallway, she found a door slightly ajar at the far end, leading into darkness. The stairwell was cold, and goosebumps rose across her arms as the chill caught them. Still, she headed down. The stairs had a bend at the midway point, and through the inky blackness, Cerys could just about make out braziers sticking out from the wall, though she had nothing to light them with.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she was grateful to find a small tinderbox on a workbench with a sink. Beside the bench was a torch in a stand. She dropped the handkerchief into the sink, placed the key down carefully, and lit the torch, illuminating the room.

  “Cerys Jones… well isn’t  _this_  a surprise,” came the voice of Madevic Vargoba from the cell at the end of the room.


	23. Smoke and Mirrors

  There was an uncomfortable silence - lingering in the air like an unpleasant scent - as Cerys turned slowly to face Madevic. He rose from the gloom of the corner, and stepped into the light, his brown eyes locking onto Cerys’. She said nothing. His olive skin was hidden beneath layers of dried blood.

  “Should have known the reason you didn’t like me was because you had a thing for that git upstairs.” He grunted and leaned back against the wall. Cerys poured water over the cloth before picking it up and ringing it out. Grabbing the keys, she made her way to the cell door. She watched him through the bars. “Nothing to say to me?” he asked.

  Her jaw clenched. The last time she’d seen him, he had been storming away from her parents’ house, after having dragged her there by her wrist. “Whose blood is this, Madevic?”

  “So that’s how we’re doing this.”

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked. “You think I didn’t want to marry you because I have some kind of interest in Mr Astorio?” Shaking her head, she sighed. “Have you considered that perhaps I didn’t wish to marry you - not because of anyone else - but because of  _you_? Because  _you_  are the sort of man who would grab me by the wrist and  _hurt_  me - because  _you_  are the sort of man who winds up in a prison cell covered in someone else’s blood.”

  “You’re a silly girl.”

  “Actually, I’m an intelligent woman,” she said. “Look, Mr Vargoba… I’m not sure why you wanted to marry me anyway. We are wholly incompatible. We would have been rather miserable together.”

  Madevic laughed, the rasping laugh of a man who had not slept all night. Cerys glanced past him at the straw mat on the floor, and sighed. “That’s why I thought we’d be a good match,” he said, and she returned her gaze to him. “We wouldn’t have  _been_  together. I’d have been off doing what I do best - stirring up trouble,” he said. “Look… you’re right. You’re smart. There aren’t a lot of jobs for you in a town like this. I thought you’d  _like_  the city. Most people in this town are farmers - and they’re happy to be farmers - but that won’t make you coin in Waterdeep, Cerys.”

  “What are you trying to get at?”

  “I wanted to live in a nice house. Nice houses need good money to pay for them - the sort of money you make if one of you is off plundering ancient tombs and the other works in bureaucracy.”

  “That’s rather a long word for  _you_ ,” Cerys muttered under her breath. If Madevic heard her, he did nothing to give it away.

  “I didn’t want to marry some farmer, Cerys. I wanted to give both of us a chance at the lives we deserve. I thought you could see the bigger picture, but instead, you’d rather buy a book you can’t even read.”

  “I’ve  _read_  it,” she said, sharply. “It was an interesting read.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You made your choice,” he said, glowering at her. “It’s just a shame you can’t see that I was your best chance. Maybe I am the sort of man who finds himself in a cell, covered in blood, but I’m also the sort of man who could look past your - quite frankly - unattractive face, and appreciate you for the brain behind it.”

  Cerys said nothing, keeping her expression as impassive as possible. “Are you going to tell me what happened or not? Who did you hurt?”

  “Some guy in a red dress.”

  “ _Some guy in a red dress_.”

  “Yeah… robe… I don’t know. Some magic sort. We got into a fight outside town - he was doing some weird thing with a bowl and, I think… blood? I don’t know,” he said. “He splashed it all over me, and then cast some spell on me, and everything went blurry, so I just hit him and… I guess I didn’t stop.”

  “You weren’t drunk?”

  “No,  _I wasn’t drunk_ ,” he snapped, perhaps a little too defensively for Cerys to believe him. She stared him down with narrowed eyes. “Okay, so I had a couple of drinks and went for a wander - but I swear I wasn’t that drunk.”

  “So you had a couple of drinks, went for a wander, found a man in a red dress doing  _some weird thing_  with a bowl and blood, and he then threw the blood at you and cast a spell on you, and that made you dizzy so you… hit him?  _Killed_  him?”

  Madevic shrugged. “Something like that. Then I wandered back into town, still in a daze, and your boyfriend arrested me for being drunk.”

  “He’s not my-”

  “Is that why you’re always with him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Where were you last night? With Diero?”

  “Well-”

  “What about this morning?”

  “Are you going to let me clean some of that blood off you, or do I have to come in there?” she asked, glaring through the bars. Madevic’s lips curled upwards into a grin, clearly pleased he’d got some kind of a rise out of her. Gracefully, he extended his arm through the bars. Cerys took a deep breath to calm herself, and ran the damp cloth along his forearm, staining the grey muslin a pale red.

  “This could have been us… but in a nice house in Neverwinter or something. You could have been cleaning actual wounds that I got while adventuring.”

  “Is that supposed to appeal to me?” Cerys snorted. “Waiting for you to get home so I can tend to your every need? You must have me mistaken for someone who actually  _likes_  you - or at least  _tolerates_  you.”

  Madevic laughed. “You know, your mother warned me you were petty.”

  “She’s not yet seen my petty side,” Cerys grunted. “I’d like to keep it that way, so if you wouldn’t mind  _shutting up_.”

  “After I get out of here, I’m gonna move. You know that, right?”

  “That’s my hope, but I won’t hold my breath,” she said.

  “You’ll regret not coming with me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You’ll miss me.”

  Cerys finished cleaning the blood from his arm and took a step back from the cell. Looking him in the eye, she smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “Your existence does wonders for my self-esteem.” With that, she turned and headed for the door.

  “Leave the light on, would you,” Madevic called after her, causing her to stop beside the torch. She glanced over her shoulder and watched him for a moment. “Oh, come on!  _Cerys_ ,” he groaned as she picked it up, and plunged it into the bucket of water beside the sink. “Cerys!”

  “That’s  _Miss Jones_  to you,” she said, and made her way back up the stairs.

  Cerys knocked on the door to Diero’s office, and waited for him to call her in, before entering. His gaze wandered over the bloody cloth in her hands before making its way to her eyes.

  “He wasn’t too much trouble, I hope?”

  Wordlessly, Cerys shut the door behind her and made her way towards the desk, handing back the keys, first, and waiting for Diero to stash them in the drawer, before handing him the damp, bloody cloth.

  “Did you manage to get anything out of him?”

  “He said the blood didn’t belong to the man he hit.”

  “That’s what he said last night. I’d have thought he’d have sobered up by this morning and would have thought of some better excuse than that, but…” Diero paused to shrug and sigh. “I guess some people are too stupid to come up with any better story.”

  “He said he fought a man in a red robe - out in the wilderness,” she said. “He had a bowl of blood and was doing something with it. When he saw Madevic, he threw the blood over him, and the two started fighting.” With a shrug of her own, Cerys eyed Diero’s armchair somewhat hopefully. Diero nodded for her to sit down, and she lowered herself into it.

  He rubbed his hands together with an unexpected nervousness. Wetting his lips, he opened another draw and rummaged around for a good few seconds before producing a silver mirror, polished to perfection.

  “Well, my dear Miss Jones, I dare say we’ll find out the truth one way or another,” he said, his skin paler than usual. Swallowing, he held the mirror in one hand, and placed his other over the reflection. Closing his eyes, the room seemed to momentarily darken. Diero kept his eyes closed for a solid minute or two.

  Cerys was about to ask him if he was alright, when he drew a deep breath and opened his eyes again. He stowed the mirror away without another word, and sat, fingers laced together. The longer he sat in the silence, the darker his features grew, until he looked quite unwell.

  “Diero?” Cerys searched his face for any sign of acknowledgement, but he remained pensive. “Is everything alright?”

  Diero blinked rapidly, coming back to his senses. He sat back in his chair and turned his attention to Cerys with a grim look of concern. “Further investigation is required.” He rose to his feet, and circled around the desk, heading for the coat stand.

  “Who did you see? Was he telling the truth?” Cerys asked, swiftly rising to join him.

  He turned around to watch her, as if considering how much he was going to tell her. With a sigh, he inclined his head towards the door. “Come on,” he said after a moment of silence.

  Cerys followed him out of the door, down the hallway, and out of the courthouse. Arveen was still hanging rags up on the washing line. She drew breath to greet them as she spotted them, but upon catching sight of Diero’s stormy gaze, she pressed her lips together and averted her own. A terrible twisting started in Cerys’ gut, as Diero led her to the south side of town.

  He said nothing - and she was not foolish enough to try to get him to - as they walked through the long grass, and past the town boundary. Cerys had not left the town many times, and certainly she had never left it in pursuit of a mage of some sort who had been possibly casting spells that involved blood. Though, she supposed, Diero’s spell to find the victim had involved blood. Regardless, the mere idea of using blood in a spell somehow felt very  _wrong_.

  “Not much further now,” Diero said, breaking the silence and taking Cerys by utter surprise. She did not question how he knew where to go, and merely followed him wordlessly. Her mouth was dry, and no matter how many times she tried to swallow, it did nothing to help. They fell back into silence as they trudged up a small hill, and then down into a valley, though in the centre of the valley below, objects were strewn about and the grass was stained an unsettling shade of dark red.


	24. Needle in a Haystack

  Cerys remained frozen at the top of the hill as Diero strode down into the valley, his shins lost in the grass. Her heart hammered violently against her chest. She didn’t blame it for wanting to escape. She wanted to run.

  “Cerys!” Diero snapped over his shoulder, bringing her to her senses. With a great deal of reluctance, she followed him down into the clearing. As she drew nearer, she could see the objects with more clarity. A crate - now smashed into pieces, and a pewter bowl - mostly flattened - and feathers…  _everywhere._

  “Diero…?” she whispered. “What happened here?”

  “Do you see that?” he asked, ignoring her question. Taking his glasses off, he gestured with that hand to something dark in the grass.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Diero’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. “I’m not sure,” he said. He strode forwards. Cerys lingered in place for a moment longer, before trotting after him. She was so focused on his back, desperately keeping her gaze from wandering across the blood-stained grass, that she almost collided with him, when he came to an abrupt halt. She peered around him at the dark blur in the grass.

  “Is that…” she began.

  “A chicken,” he said, interrupting her. Taking his coat off, he used it as a blanket with which to pick up the creature. It was dead. Very much so. Cerys could tell, because it was missing it’s head. “I saw it when I cast my spell.”

  “Oh gods!” she whimpered, clasping a hand over her mouth. “Why in the world would someone cut the head off a chicken, whilst standing in the middle of a field?”

  Diero’s eyes scanned the grass. Still holding the chicken in his coat, he maneuvered his way around the debris from the crate, and picked up the pewter bowl by its edge, dangling it between his forefinger and his thumb. The insides were stained with the same dark red as the grass.

  “This was a ritual.”

  “What kind of ritual involves cutting the head off a chicken, whilst standing in the middle of a field?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly, but not the sort any reasonable person would conduct.”

  “What sort of person would do that?” she asked.

  Diero turned to look at her with a steely gaze. He regarded her for a moment, weighing up how much he should divulge, before glancing across the horizon. “A red wizard.”

  Cerys held her tongue. She wasn’t sure what a red wizard was, or how it differed to any other kind of wizard, but she supposed it had something to do with the red robes Madevic had seen.

  “Do you think that chicken came from Mara’s coop?” Cerys asked.

  Diero’s eyes snapped to her, deep in consideration. “Possibly,” he said. “I can’t imagine it is easy to transport a live chicken a far distance without some sort of cage - and if the scene here is anything to go by, the chicken was definitely killed here - and any kind of cage would have been destroyed or abandoned at the very least.”

  “We should talk with Mara. We should make sure all her chickens are accounted for,” Cerys said, wrapping her arms around herself.

  Diero nodded. “I will entrust that task to you. I need to get some answers from Madevic. Whoever he fought - he certainly hurt them far more than they hurt him. If he knows which way they fled, we must get that answer from him,” he said. Cerys nodded in understanding.

  “Find out what you can from Mara, and meet me back at the courthouse.” He paused to look over the clearing once more, before shaking his head. “What a disaster,” he muttered under his breath, and - chicken and bowl still in his possession - turned to head back up the hill. Cerys took one final glance at the blood and pieces of crate covering the grass, before falling into line behind Diero.

  Watching her own feet closely to step around the blood and debris, she stopped when something small caught her eye. Squatting down, she brushed aside the blades of grass to reveal a small piece of bone, fashioned into a needle. One side was red, as if it had been sitting atop a pool of blood, but as she glanced around she saw there was no blood this far away from the wreckage.

  Her eyes narrowed and she rose to her feet to show Diero, but he was already halfway up the hill. She clenched her fist around the needle and strode after him. He stopped to wait for her at the top of the hill, but before she could get a single word out, he turned around and started to walk back towards town.

  His features were stern, his lips drawn. Cerys bit her lip, wanting to address what she had found, but was unsure of its importance. She held her tongue, and followed her mentor back into Secomber.

  “I shall see you at the courthouse, later,” he said, once they were safely back in town. Cerys stopped walking, and watched the back of Diero’s head as he moved farther and farther away from her, hoping he would turn and catch her gaze. He didn’t. Taking a deep breath, she opened up her hand and studied the bone needle resting in her palm. Pocketing it, she turned and made for Mara’s house.

  Whilst most of Secomber was beautiful in its own way, Mara’s cottage was the exception. The windows were cracked, their frames rotting. The blinds were covered in a thick dark mold, and were forever drawn, and Cerys thought this was - perhaps - for the best, as she could not imagine the inside of Mara’s house would have looked any better.

  The roof was in a state of disrepair; several shingles lay on the ground surrounding the cottage, and they had been there for years. Mara had made no move to tidy the path up to her house. The front garden was overgrown - a thick tangle of brambles and nettles, and ivy suffocated the apple tree that had not bore fruit in a number of years. It had not always been this way. Cerys recalled there being a wooden gate to Mara’s back garden in the stone wall that ran around Mara’s house. It had been painted blue. Now, it was in pieces and had been boarded up with plain wood. Even  _that_ had begun to rot.

  Something had happened to Mara a few years ago. Cerys had asked her mother about it, but Ann had said it happened to anyone unfortunate enough to live to Mara’s age. Taking a deep breath, Cerys stepped up to the door and knocked. The sound was damp and did not reverberate in the way Cerys had expected it to.

  She was left waiting a good few minutes before she heard shuffling on the other side. Then, a pause.

  “Who is it?” came Mara’s voice.

  Cerys took a deep breath to answer, but the door swung inwards to reveal Mara’s mousy face peering out from a dark hallway. “It’s Cerys,” Cerys said, finally.

  “Oh… Miss Jones. What’s wrong?”

  Cerys’ stomach knotted. She did not want to be the one to break the bad news to Mara… if there were even any bad news to break to her. As much as she did not wish to inform her that one of her beloved chickens was missing, she also did not wish to inform her that one of her beloved chickens was missing if - in fact - it was  _not_  missing.

  “I… just wanted to check in on you,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Well, that’s because you’ve been spending all of your time with that Mr Astorio,” she said, jabbing Cerys in the chest with a frail, trembling finger.

  Cerys gritted her teeth. “I… well…”

  “Don’t think I didn’t see you heading over to his last night, and leaving his house this morning, Miss Jones,” she said. “What happened to poor old Mr Vargoba?”

  “You realise I went home between last night and this morning, Mrs Marsk,” Cerys said, but this was not the conversation she wanted to be having, and she wasn’t entirely sure why she was so much as humouring it. “Regardless. I wanted to see how  _you_  were. Is everything alright?”

  “ _Is everything alright_?” Mara mimicked in a manner most mocking. “Quite the opposite, Miss Jones! One of my darling chickens is missing!” she squawked. “Oh, I’ve looked everywhere for dear Clementine, but I just can’t find her! I don’t understand it.”

  “O-Oh my, Mrs Marsk! This sounds an utter disaster,” Cerys said, feigning surprise quite poorly. “I should bring this to the attention of the local courthouse,” she added.

  Mara nodded, and dabbed away imaginary tears from her cheeks. With a heavy sigh, she stepped aside. “You’d best take a look at the scene of the crime,” she said.

  “Crime?” Cerys asked, taking a step inside. The air was musty and damp, and Cerys was sure she could smell the rotting timbers. “What ever makes you think it’s a crime, Mrs Marsk?”

  “Well, Miss Jones, my darling Clementine would hardly wander off by herself, would she now?” she asked in such a way that Cerys felt ever just so slightly embarrassed for asking such a silly question. “Come now, come now!” With that, Mara Marsk waddled down the hallway towards the only source of light - a grime-coated kitchen window at the far end - leaving Cerys to shut the front door behind her. With the door shut, the hallway was mostly dark once more. Cerys followed Mara through to the kitchen.

  Stacked high upon the work surfaces were bowls, metal troughs, plates, and cages - all covered in a thick paste made of chicken excrement and and feed. Cerys’ breath caught in her chest, her stomach twisting into a knot. She hadn’t thought things were so bad for Mara.

  “So what are you going to do about Madevic Vargoba, Miss Jones?” Mara asked, heading around the kitchen table, and making her way over to the back door. It was ajar, and a cool breeze wafted in the scent of animal filth; something Cerys was unfortunately all too familiar with.

  “I had no plans to do anything, Mrs Marsk.”

  “Look, when a girl gets to your age, Miss Jones, she needs to find a nice man -  _or_  woman - to settle down with. You’ll be lost without one!”

  Cerys glanced around. She wondered if that was had happened to Mara; if she had lost herself when she had lost her husband. Were that the case, Cerys was most certain she did not want to find someone to beso completely and utterly reliant upon.

  “Right, Mrs Marsk,” she said, not wishing to argue with the aging woman. Mara shook her head, despite Cerys trying to agree with her, and pushed open the back door.

  She led Cerys outside, who recoiled at the sight of a garden that was absolutely not big enough for the sheer quantity of chickens attempting to inhabit it.

  “Mrs Marsk, are you sure there is enough room for the chickens?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  Mara jerked to a halt and turned around to glare up at Cerys, through her tiny glasses. “Are you really trying to tell me how to run my coop?” she barked. “Did Miss Fireforge set you up to this?” She spat on the ground. “Good for nothing nosy dwarf.”

  “Well… I’m certainly no expert on the matter, but they seem a little…  _cooped up_ , I suppose.”

  “Of course they are! That’s how they’re meant to be. They’re chickens.”

  “Right. Silly me,” Cerys said, rather uncertainly. This seemed to satisfy Mara, as the older woman turned her gaze from Cerys and gestured out to the innumerable quantity of chickens. Cerys was not sure how she’d have even noticed a missing chicken in amongst all the mess. “So she was…  _here_  one day and then just…  _not_  the next?”

  “Quite!” Mara nodded. “I fed her last night, along with all my other little darlings, and then this morning she wasn’t here. Oh, how I called for her, and called for her, but she did not come.”

  “So she went missing last night.”

  “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?” Mara glared once again at Cerys, who leaned away ever so slightly.

  “Right… sorry.” Cerys sighed. “Well, would you mind if I had a look around?”

  Mara eyed her up, somewhat suspiciously for a moment. Cerys tried to not take it so personally; Mara had not been the same since her husband’s passing. After a long moment of silence, the woman sighed and nodded, before turning around and heading back into the kitchen.

  Cerys sighed in relief, and meandered around the garden, not exactly sure what she was looking for. Though she’d only just started, she was close to giving up. She hadn’t really considered what it would mean for her if Diero was wrong and she turned out to be the entirely wrong person for the job. She wasn’t even sure how to ask questions, or what questions to ask. With another sigh, far heavier this time, she retrieved the small shard of bone from her pocket and turned it idly between her fingers.

  It was right then that one particularly brave chicken decided to flap at her feet. Squeaking in a mixture of surprise and a fear she would never admit to, Cerys flinched and the little bone needle went flying out of her fingers, landing somewhere in amidst the feed and straw on the ground.

  “ _No_ ,” she said in a whine, squatting down. Her hand made for the hay, when she realised just  _how_  covered in fecal matter it was, and managed to stop just at the last moment. Her eyes widened. She had to find the needle. She eyed up the excrement. Pulling a painfully sour face, she brushed aside some of the hay, her hands trembling jerkily.

  She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and continued to search around the hay, when she felt something upon her back; something scratchy - almost like chicken claws. Actually, it was rather a lot like chicken claws. Yelping, she covered her head and curled up into a ball. The sudden movement spooked the poor hen, who leapt off in a fright.

  Cerys remained in place for a moment, eyes firmly shut. Taking a deep - an unfortunately deep - breath in, she opened her eyes to find her nose only inches away from a pile of misery. Yet, beside the pile was not only the small bone needle, but something far more intriguing. Caught in the weave of the chicken wire was a small scrap of red fabric.

  Her eyes widened, and without so much as thinking about the very thing they rested beside, she made a grab for the cloth and the needle, clutching both in a tight grip as she rose to her feet.

  “Are you quite alright, Miss Jones?” Mara called from the back step.

  Cerys was far from alright. She had to fight the urge to reprise Mara’s mocking remark from earlier. She managed, just about, and instead settled for a non-committal whimper. “I’ll be fine, Mrs Marsk.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Now I really must be getting-”

  “Come on, dear! I’ve made tea,” Mara said, and waddled back inside before Cerys could protest. With the heaviest sigh yet, Cerys stuffed the needle and red scrap into her pocket, and trudged back inside after Mara, who led her to the only other room downstairs. The lounge was comprised of one chair, one wobbling table with mismatched legs, and a threadbare rug. Mara took the chair, before picking up her cup from the table.

  The cups were rather like Shandri’s, except Shandri’s were in one piece and not leaking. Mara’s looked as though they’d been dropped from the top stair a good few dozen times. They were also filthy, and Cerys was not sure if it really  _was_  tea inside the cup, or merely water only slightly cleaner than the chickens’ drinking water.

  She took it in her hand all the same, and sipped. Thankfully, it  _was_  tea. It was also scalding hot. Cerys did not care. Tipping the cup, she swallowed the liquid fire as swiftly as she could, and then stood in awkward silence, awaiting Mara to finish her own sip. The elderly woman held the teacup to her lips for a good minute or so, and when she lowered it, Cerys expected to see the cup empty. However, this was not the case, and in fact, it barely looked as though Mara had drunk any of it.

  Cerys drew breath to excuse herself, when something stopped her. She wondered if all the chickens, all the mess, all the clutter was Mara’s way of surrounding herself, a way of forgetting the loneliness of her isolation. She smiled half-heartedly at the woman in the chair, and stood in an awkward silence, figuring it was the least she could do.

  “Well?” Mara asked, after another sip.

  “Pardon?”

  “What are you just standing there for? You’ve finished your tea. Weren’t you in a hurry? I’ve got things to do, Miss Jones. I haven’t got time to entertain you all day,” Mara grumbled.

  Cerys grimaced, her smile twisting into bared teeth more than anything else as she attempted to keep up the facade. “Oh,” she said. It was all she could manage. “I’ll… just… see myself out then?”

  “Goodbye, Miss Jones,” Mara said, and turned her attention back to her tea.

  Cerys stared in disbelief, her features twisting into a look of bewilderment. Still, she did not complain. Turning from Mara, she left the sitting room, and headed down the hall for the front door.


	25. Sick as a Pig

  Cerys stopped just shy of Diero’s door, her hand hovering only inches away. The hallway was empty, save for Cerys herself, and she’d thought the courthouse would be similarly empty. However, the argument coming from Diero’s office was loud enough to fill the otherwise quiet corridor.

  She glanced at the front double doors, musing the possibility of leaving altogether and coming back later, when rather suddenly the indecipherable yelling ceased and the door to Diero’s office swung inwards to reveal a tall woman, with dark skin and even darker hair towering over him, hand upon the pommel of a unnecessarily large sword. It seemed neither had noticed her yet. She cleared her throat. Two pairs of eyes darted her way.

  “Oh, Cerys,” Diero said, taking the opportunity to glare at the tall woman whilst she was distracted. “Do come in. Ciara, here, was just leaving.”

  Ciara sneered. “Actions have repercussions, Astorio,” she muttered, before brushing past Cerys, nearly knocking her over. “My cells, my prisoners,  _my_  rules,” she called from down the hall. Cerys watched her throw the double doors open and storm out into the quiet afternoon.

  “So that’s Ms Kulenov’s sister, then,” Cerys said, turning her attention back to Diero and forcing a smile. Diero just sighed.

  “It certainly is,” he said in such a way, Cerys was certain that was the nicest thing he could find within himself to say about her.

  “Is… everything alright?” she asked, and Diero responded with a wry laugh. Stepping back to allow her entry, he shrugged and shook his head.

  “Miss Dundragon is good at her job,” he said. “In fact, she is  _so_  good at her job, she feels she ought to be doing  _mine_ ,” he added in a grumble. Cerys stepped into the room. Diero stared at her. She watched him back.

  “Is something the matter, Diero?”

  Diero wet his lips and drew breath to say something, but instead rocked back on his heel and cocked his head to one side.

  “Please, just be out with it.”

  “Well, my dear Cerys… I was just… well, it’s… it’s your  _hair_.”

  The colour drained from Cerys’ face as she reached up to touch her hair. Her fingers chanced upon something unexpectedly  _fluffy_. With a resigned sigh, she fished it out from between the brown tangles atop her head and brought her hand in front of her.

  “Is that… is that a  _feather_?” Diero asked.

  Raising her brows, most unimpressed, Cerys nodded one solitary nod. “Yes, Diero. That would be a feather.”

  “I assume Mrs Marsk wasn’t  _too_  much trouble?” he asked, plucking the feather from Cerys’ loose grip. He turned it in his fingers, admiring its honey brown colour. Cerys shrugged not wishing to speak ill of the woman whose ill nature was no fault of her own. “Did your investigation prove fruitful?” he asked.

  Brow furrowing, Cerys reached into her pocket and retrieved the scrap of red cloth. “Actually,” she said, “I found  _this_.”

  Diero’s eyes narrowed. He turned around and made his way over to the table beside his armchair. Placing the feather down upon the table’s surface, he picked up his glasses and slid them up his nose before returning to Cerys.

  “Now  _this_ , Cerys, is a clue,” he said, taking the small flash of red from her palm. Pinched between his forefinger and thumb, he held it up to the light to study it better. “And you found this at Mrs Marsk’s, was that?”

  “It was stuck to the chicken wire beneath one of the coops,” Cerys said. “I was thinking it possibly belongs to our evasive man in red robes - perhaps his robe snag-”

  “Perhaps his robe snagged upon the wire as he tried to make a quick getaway with a wriggling chicken. Yes, precisely.”

  He headed back to his armchair, and gestured for Cerys to shut the door. She obliged and followed him across the room, sitting herself down on the settee opposite him. He continued to scrutinise the cloth, turning it every which way.

  “Can you use your magic to find who that belonged to?” Cerys asked. “As you did with the blood.”

  For a moment, Diero remained motionless, saying nothing. Eventually, he nodded slowly, and rose to his feet. He stepped around his desk, and sat himself down in the desk chair. Reaching into one of the drawers, he pulled out the familiar, shiny mirror, and placed the hand holding the scrap over the glass.

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again. With a scoff, he shook his head. “Whoever this is, their will is stronger than my magic.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He blocked the spell.”

  “People can do that?”

  Diero nodded. “The chicken was dead. Its body - and the surrounding area - had no will with which to resist my magic, but this… this red wizard either shielded himself from my scrying, or he resisted the spell itself,” he said. “Gods only know if he knows we’re onto him.”

  “He might want to come back and finish the job with Madevic,” Cerys said. “I only mean to say, Madevic caught him in the middle of something, and he also tried to kill the wizard - but we know he didn’t succeed, else your spell just now would have worked. Not to mention, someone would have had to have carried the body away.”

  “You’re right. It begs the question… how much did Madevic see?”

  “It doesn’t really matter. The real question would be how much does our red wizard  _think_  Madevic saw.”

  “True, though I suspect my question will be easier to answer,” Diero said, then hesitated as something lingered on the tip of his tongue. “You’re doing well, Cerys. This is rather a challenging case for your first day. I’m pleased you’re managing to keep up.”

  “I just hope your confidence in me isn’t misplaced.”

  “I’m never wrong about people.”

  “I’m not people.”

  Diero chuckled and nodded his head in defeat. “You are certainly not, Miss Jones.” She smiled back, and leaned back in the settee.

  “So, should we talk to Madevic?” she asked.

  Diero shook his head. “I think that can wait until tomorrow, don’t you? We’ve got an appointment with some cryptic passages and a black book.”

  “Of course,” Cerys said, then paused to narrow her eyes. “Is… is he still in the cells?” she asked. Diero shrugged.

  “That depends,” he said. “Did Miss Dundragon retrieve him?”

  “Not that I saw of.”

  With a smirk, he shook his head. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of being so rude as to free one of the  _Captain’s_  prisoners. I’m not the sort to go poking my nose into the business of others,” he said. Cerys cocked a brow. This felt an awful lot like a game she had no interest in getting involved in. Still, she nodded in understanding, not wishing to cause conflict where there needn’t be any.

  “I will head home first to tidy up before joining you... if that is alright with you,” she said, curiously eyeing the feather upon his table. Diero followed her gaze and nodded with a smile.

  “By all means, there is no rush,” he said. “I will prepare dinner, if you would like.”

  “I would be grateful for it.” With that, she rose to her feet and Diero rose to his. She bowed her head, excusing herself, and began the short walk home.

  When she made it home, she was alerted to her mother’s whereabouts by the sound of sobbing coming from the large barn. Cerys’ stomach twisted into a knot as she headed around the side of the house and towards the barn. Igor stood outside the barn’s double doors, his head in his hands.

  “Father,” she said. It took a moment for him to even acknowledge her, and even then, his acknowledgement came in the form of a grief-stricken shake of his head and nothing more. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Miri,” he bit out.

  Cerys noted his drawn features. His usually-red cheeks were pale with concern. Biting her lip, she placed a hand on his forearm as she stepped past him and peered into the barn. Her mother sat, back against the barn wall, clutching fistfuls of her own thinning hair.

  “Cerys,” she croaked, and Cerys sighed. She stepped into the barn, pushing the door to behind her, and made her way over to her mother. Sitting down next to her, she stared up at the balcony and wondered just how much rubbish it would have to hold before it collapsed. Her mother put a hand on her knee. Her fingers were damp with tears.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Miri’s dead. The piglets are dead.”

  Cerys had expected it, but to hear it was somehow different; more real. She had not imaged she would ever care much about the death of some pigs; she’d hardly thought of Wilmorn since his passing, but there was the distinct gnaw of pain somewhere deep inside her. She’d fed those piglets. They’d crawled over her feet. There was more to it than that.

  “Someone is targetting us,” she said.

  Ann’s features relaxed. Her sobbing subsided. “What?” she asked.

  “The cake was laced with filth fever - that saw to the death of Wilmorn - and now Miri and all of her piglets are dead?” Cerys shook her head. “This doesn’t feel like coincidence.” Her brow furrowed as she rose to her feet.

  “What are you going to do?” Ann asked.

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “How?” she asked. “Who would want to ruin us like this?”

  Cerys shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” she said. She made her way back around the house and inside, up to her room, where she changed out of her clothes, and attempted to tame her hair. She was as successful as ever, which is to say, she found a change of clothes, but her hair remained its usual tangle of half-curls.

  When she headed back down, her father was sat at the kitchen table, the bench bowing under his weight. His hands were clasped together and his eyes were shut. She came to a halt at the bottom step, and watched him in silence for a moment. He muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t quite make out.

  When he was finished muttering, he looked up, though he averted his gaze rather swiftly when he saw Cerys watching him.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t realise you were there.”

  “Were you…  _praying_?” she asked, somewhat hesitantly. He snorted and forced a smile before shrugging.

  “Trying to, I guess,” he said. “Your mother says you think someone’s out to get us. I guess… I figured I’d ask a god to help us.”

  Cerys stood wordlessly for a moment, before heading towards the table. She sat opposite him, in the seat usually occupied by her mother. “Which god?” she asked.

  “I don’t know…  _any_  of them. I don’t want there to be someone trying to hurt you or your mother,” he said. “I figured maybe Chauntea could help us.”

  Cerys nodded. “You know… I prayed for the first time the other day,” she said. He stared at her, waiting for her to continue. “I prayed to Mystra, and then I had a spark of ingenuity.”

  Igor scoffed and shook his head. “You don’t need assistance for ingenuity, Cerys. You’re the smart one in this family,” he said, and placed his hand - palm up - in the centre of the table. Cerys placed her hand in his, and attempted a smile.

  “It doesn’t hurt to get a bit of help from a god, occasionally,” she said, and he snorted with a shrug. She shook her head. “I’m going to find out who did it, and I need all the help I can get. So… how about we ask for some guidance…  _together_?”

  Igor watched her for a moment. It was clear to Cerys he didn’t think a prayer was going to do any good, but after a few seconds of silence, he nodded and closed his eyes. Cerys kept hers open. She wasn’t entirely sure how praying worked, but she attempted a prayer of her own, silently asking Mystra for any sort of help.

  After a few minutes of quietly sitting together, holding hands, the door creaked, and Cerys looked up to the sight of Ann stumbling into their house. Without so much as a glance at her husband or her daughter, she wandered to the stairs, head hanging. Only, she stopped before she put her foot on the first step.

  “Where were you today, Cerys?” she asked.

  Cerys took a deep breath, not sure how her mother would take the answer, particularly now that she was in such a poor state of mind. Regardless, she answered honestly. “I had my first day at work,” she said.

  This seemed to pique Ann’s curiosity, for she glanced over her shoulder and cocked her head to one side. “Work?” she asked. Then, her eyes widened. “At the courthouse?”

  Cerys nodded and took her hand back from where it rested upon her father’s. “Yes. I was assisting Mr Astorio in a case.”

  “A case?” Igor asked. “What case?”

  Cerys wasn’t sure how much she could - or even  _should_  - divulge to her parents, particularly since her mother  _lived_  to gossip. Still, she supposed Mara would be harping on about her missing chicken any day now, so there seemed to be little harm in discussing at least  _that_  much.

  “You see, one of Mrs Marsk’s chickens went missing.”

  “That sounds riveting, dear,” Ann said in a yawn. “How ever will she cope. Gods forbid I have to listen to that old shrew whine about anything else. Have you heard about what she said about Ms Fireforge? Anyway, I’m sure she’ll manage just fine, I wouldn’t waste your time on it.”

  Cerys felt the impact as Ann landed the blow to her ego. Her stomach churned, a feeling of shame consuming her. "The chicken was stolen,” she blurted, attempting to defend why she’d spent her time on the case.

  This succeeded in holding Ann’s interest. Turning around, the woman folded her arms and continued to watch Cerys closely. Cerys knew she’d already said more than she should have, but it was too late to hold back now.

  “We suspect the chicken was used in a ritual by a wizard outside of town. Madevic got into a fight with him. We’re currently trying to locate the wizard in question, but that is proving rather difficult,” she said. “Still, it is only the first day, so there’s time yet.”

  “A wizard stole a chicken for a ritual outside of town?” Igor asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Cerys didn’t blame him. She had to admit, even she was in the dark as to what any of that actually meant.

  “Do you think this wizard killed our precious Wilmorn and Miri?” Ann asked. Cerys looked across the room at her mother. She was surprised to see a look of sincerity upon her mother’s face. Cerys hadn’t considered the possibility that the events might be related, but she knew she’d be foolish to rule anything out, even if the crimes did not  _feel_  similar.

  “Possibly,” she said, not wishing to shut her mother’s idea down for fear of her reaction. “I’ll certainly mention it to Diero this evening.”

  “So you’re going over this evening?” Ann asked. Cerys nodded. “You two seem to be getting on rather well,” she said. “He’s a bit old for you, though... don’t you think dear?”

  Igor grunted in agreement. “I always find it strange when older men spend time with younger women,” he said. “I mean, I’m sure he’s a lovely chap, and you’re obviously rather taken with him, it’s just… if he’s such a nice man, why hasn’t he found a woman before now… his own age?”

  “He’s more than a little dedicated to his job,” Cerys attempted to explain, but Igor looked less than convinced. “Well, it’s not as if I… I mean… my feelings are entirely… Well… Mm.”

  Rising to her feet, Cerys brushed herself down and stepped out from the bench. She glanced at each of her parents who watched her in oppressive silence, and then without another word, she left.


	26. The Lion's Den

Flopping down into the armchair in Diero’s study, Cerys let out a long, heavy sigh. Diero watched her in amusement. Cerys felt anything but amused. There was a lingering moment of silence as Diero studied her expression closely, before his own shifted into one of concern. Leaning back against his desk, he drummed his fingers upon the polished wooden top, and waited for her to start.

“I think we’ve been looking at the Filth Fever case wrong,” she said.

“Interesting,” Diero said. “Do go on.”

“We’ve been working upon the assumption Lavinia Greenbottle was the target, and my family - and our pig - were unintended victims.” She clenched her jaw and shook her head. “Everyone was surprised at Wilmorn’s success. What if… what if he  _had_  to succeed? What if someone sabotaged Lavinia?” she asked. “At the Summer Fête, Lavinia accused my father of having bribed the judges. What if someone  _did_? What if we  _weren’t_  the unintended victims? What if we were the  _targets_?”

“That is a lot of ‘what if’s, Cerys,” Diero remarked, but stroked his chin all the same. “What has brought all this on?” he asked.

“Another of the pigs is dead - and all her piglets,” Cerys said. “I was looking after them yesterday. They were fine - they weren’t sick in any way,” she explained. “Furthermore, the only suspect we could find - whilst working under the assumption Mrs Greenbottle was the target - was Haseid Jassan, and you, nor I, nor even Shandri Kulenov seems to think Mr Jassan is the sort.”

“No. You’re right. I don’t think he’s the sort,” Diero said. “Of course, his wife didn’t  _seem_  the sort to steal flowers and frame another in an attempt to sabotage the competition’s chances at success.”

“What if this isn’t about killing Mrs Greenbottle  _or_  my family?” Cerys suggested. “What if this is about the Jassans? Atala Jassan protested her sentencing - she claimed her innocence right until the end, and now Haseid Jassan might be accused of… pretty much the same thing. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“So you think someone is trying to  _frame_  Mr Jassan?”

“Well… let’s pretend for a moment Mrs Greenbottle  _was_ the culprit here. If she poisoned a cake, it would make sense for her to then sabotage her own chances at the Pig Agility - she wouldn’t want to kill her very own Portia by eating the cake, would she? Meanwhile, Mr Jassan offered to lend the tin for the cake this year - which of course Mrs Greenbottle would know. After all, she’s friends with none other than Shandri Kulenov. And of  _course_  Ms Kulenov would tell Mrs Greenbottle about the tin. Mrs Greenbottle wins every year, and for the past few years, the cake has been a rather sorry melted mess. Shandri would want her friend to know that the cake would be in tact this year.”

“So Mrs Greenbottle bribes Shandri Kulenov to let Wilmorn win, and then Ms Kulenov tells you about Mr Jassan’s feud with Mrs Greenbottle to mislead you,” Diero said, nodding in deep thought. “Well, it’s certainly a sound theory, Cerys,” he said with a sigh. Cerys noted he sounded ever so slightly impressed. Despite her attempts to conceal her pride, she failed. “However,  _theories_  don’t close cases.” Her pride vanished, and was swiftly replaced with embarrassment. “We need to prove or disprove your theory, and for that… we need evidence.”

“So we need to know where Mrs Greenbottle was in the days leading up to the Pig Agility. If the cake - or tin - was laced with poison, she had only a narrow window within which to do it,” Cerys said.

“That’s no easy task,” Diero said. Cerys nodded in agreement. “Still, I applaud your thinking. I had wondered why you hadn’t mentioned the case in a while, but I hadn’t wished to pry,” he added. With an appreciative smile, Cerys sighed.

“Well, it’s worth thinking about. I’m not sure  _how_  to get that evidence, but I’ll continue to think on it,” she said. “In the meanwhile, we should continue thinking about the book and its clues.”

Taking a deep breath, Diero pushed up from where he was leant against the desk and turned around to examine the numerous scraps of parchment lay scattered across its surface. Cerys pulled herself out of the chair, and made her way over to help him. She stood by quietly and watched as he sorted through the passages, putting the references to Hellgate Dell to one side.

Cerys was about to ask how they planned to decipher the other clues, when Diero thrust the neat wad of parchment into her hands.

“Read them aloud to me,” he said, and turned once more to rest against his desk. He closed his eyes and pressed a finger to his chin.

With a deep sigh, Cerys glanced down to the scrap at the top of the pile. “The light shone as if it were day, always. That was, until the night came. And it was a long night. The oppressive darkness tore at the day until the light dwindled, until there was no light left. And in the darkness echoed screams of the lost souls, far beyond the reach of any god.” She swallowed, and lifted her gaze to meet Diero’s. Only, he was not looking at her. His eyes were trained on the chair she’d been sitting in, now empty.

Shaking his head, he waved his hand. “Next one.”

Cerys placed the sheet of parchment down onto the desk, and scanned over the next. “The naked eye could not see it. It was bathed in the light of fire and of radiance. The men who glanced upon it were blinded by its authority, and they never did see the world in the same light again. They did not see the  _light_  again.”

“Next.”

“Once, the rock was rich. Veins of glimmering ore ran through it, like rivers through a valley. It was not long after the minerals were discovered that they found their way into the fires that burned them into shapes of war.”

“Next.”

“The armies could not fight them. The portal would not shut. Day and night, it spewed fire and ash, rot and decay. The best they could do was hold-”

“Stop,” he said. Cerys stopped. “Do you think that one should be in the pile with the others?” he asked.

Cerys paused to take a breath while she considered what he was saying. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment of thought. “It mentions  _lions_  here. I don’t know how lions or treants could get confused in translation - perhaps due to the differences between Netherese and Old High Wyrm?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Still… the difference between treants and lions… The only man who can tell us for certain is the man who translated this, himself,” Diero said. “And he doesn’t much like  _me_.” He threw a pointed look at Cerys who shot him back a look most unimpressed. “Miss Jones... we’re so close to solving this. You don’t plan on giving up  _now_ , do you?”

Cerys scowled at him but sighed in defeat. She glanced to the window to get a gauge of how late it might be, but she supposed it didn’t really matter. Paelias Meliamne was likely to be in the Seven-Stringed Harp, regardless of however early or late it might be. “I suppose you want me to go and do that  _now_ ,” she said.

“I’ll get dinner prepared for when you return.”

“You’re lucky you’re a good chef,” she said, and gathered up the rest of the parchment, before turning to leave. Diero caught her shoulder, stopping her before she managed to take even one step.

Looking her in the eye, with such intensity that she shuddered, he smiled with a great deal of sincerity. “That’s not why I’m lucky,” he said, and let go of her arm. Cerys remained in place for a moment, watching him closely. Averting her gaze, she kept her expression as impassive as she could manage until she was half way to the tavern, when she could no longer keep the smile away from her lips, and by the time she reached the abnormally low door, her cheeks ached with an unfamiliar feeling.

“Miss Jones,” Finnan Greenbottle called out in a sigh from behind the bar. She turned her head to look at him. “You seem to be in a good mood. Can I help you?”

“Actually, Mr Greenbottle,” she said, “I believe you can.”

Rather evidently, Finnan Greenbottle had not expected Cerys to take him up on his offer, as he flinched and stared at her, startled. “Oh.” He grunted.

Cerys made her way to the bar. “I don’t know if you know, but I have been working rather closely with Mr Astorio, aiding him on one of his cases… and one of Mrs Marsk’s chickens has been… well… for lack of any better word…  _stolen_.”

“That’s awful, who would want to steal one of Mrs Marsk’s chickens?” he asked. “Or any chicken for that matter.”

“Well, quite,” Cerys said. “I’m having a hard time trying to put motive to this crime. There was also no sign of anyone breaking in. I believe her chicken may have been killed and eaten, leaving little to no trace of the poor thing left. However, whatever broke in to eat her poor Clementine must have been rather small. I’m thinking a rat.”

“A rat? Heavens, that would be a disaster!”

“Mm, precisely. I haven’t  _seen_  much of a rat infestation, but it’s possible it has not yet made it to our farm. We are - after all - a little ways further from the town centre than most others. Has your farm had any trouble recently?” she asked.

Finnan pressed his lips together, and looked deep in thought. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’m glad to say it hasn’t. I know that’s not particularly helpful for Mr Astorio’s investigation,” he said, and shook his head again. “If I see any rats, I’ll be sure to let one of you know, though. The last thing Secomber needs is another rat infestation.”

Cerys bowed her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr Greenbottle. If you see so much as rat  _droppings_  be sure to let us know immediately, no matter how insignificant you think it may seem,” she said, and Finnan nodded. “Again, thank you - and I hope for all our sakes, you don’t find anything of the sort.”

“Me too, Miss Jones,” he said. “Now, was there anything else I can help you with?” he asked.

Cerys glanced over her shoulder, her gaze wandering the room until it landed upon the back of Paelias Meliamne. His hair was not quite the nest it had been the last time she’d come to this tavern, but it was well on its way. “No,” she said, “that would be all.” Turning around, she meandered her way across the bar. Paelias’ two drinking companions each sighed and stood up when they saw her approaching, and relocated themselves rather wordlessly to another table, leaving Paelias to look around in confusion.

She sat down beside him right as he noticed her. With one brow cocked, he drew breath - presumably to ask her why she was harassing him at the tavern again - when she placed the parchment on the table and spread them out. He turned his attention to the translations he’d made, though his eyes narrowed as he studied them.

“Where are the rest?” he asked. “I gave you a lot more than this.”  
“I burned them, because they were distracting me,” she said. He lifted his hands and let them drop rather heavily onto the table. “Hey,” she grunted in warning. He lifted his hands again, this time in resignation. “Right,” she said, cutting to the chase. “So. You see this passage here about the lions?” she asked, pointing to the respective scrap of parchment. “Is this a reference to the treants mentioned in some of the others?”

Paelias’ eyes narrowed. He picked up the parchment to study it, and stared at it in silence for a moment, before shaking his head. “No. This one was Dragonspear Castle.”

“Dragonspear Castle?” she asked. “I’m sorry… what is that?”

The elf attempted to force a smile, but did not quite manage. “An old...  _friend_  of mine pissed off a Rakshasa some years ago, anyway… the damned thing came back - somehow - even though it had been cast to the hells - and decided to get revenge. I was sent to Dragonspear Castle to deal with it,” he said.

“And there were  _lions_?”

“What? Oh… no. No lions. The man who sent us told us a bit of its history. Apparently, in an attempt to keep the devils - coming from some portal - at bay, they set up the Hold of Battle Lions. It was some shrine to Tempus,” he said. “I’m not sure of more than that.”

“Who  _could_ tell me more?”

“You’d have to ask the man who sent us, himself. He’s in Daggerford. Isteval or something like that. He had some issues with some Red Wizards or something, I’m not really sure,” Paelias said.

Cerys’ heart skipped a beat. “Did you say red wizard?” she asked, her stomach twisting into a knot. She wet her lips, and waited for Paelias to finish swallowing his mouthful of ale.

“Yeah.”

Sighing at his pointless response, she gritted her teeth together. “What is a red wizard?”

“Red robes, shaved heads, tattoos. Powerful mages from Thay. Caused a lot of trouble for this Isteval guy, and subsequently me. Not a fan of them.”

“Madevic got into a fight with one.”

“Well… rest in peace to your ex, I guess.”

“Actually, he’s fine,” Cerys said, “but that’s not the point-”

“Madevic survived a fight with a Red Wizard of Thay? Nice. You shoulda stuck with that guy instead of wasting your time with Diero.”

Cerys inhaled sharply. “You really don’t like him, do you?” she asked. “Why? What’s he done?”

“There’s just something  _off_ about him. He walks around like he owns the place, like he knows something we all don’t - like he’s  _better_ than the rest of us,” Paelias said in a grunt. “I hate that kinda person.”

Cerys thought Diero  _was_  better than most people, but she also knew better than to tell Paelias that. “Well, thank you for your time. If I have a moment, I’ll have to see about getting to Daggerford,” she said.

“You won’t,” Paelias said as she stood up. She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. “You’ll be stuck here your whole life, because I don’t see you wanting to spend another second away from Diero, and your life is going to be so boring.”

“Better boring in the courthouse than boring in a pig sty,” she said. Paelias shrugged, conceding. Cerys tried her best to conceal her feelings, but his words bothered her somewhat. She rose to her feet and without so much as excusing herself, headed straight for the door.


	27. Moonlighting

Cerys knocked at Diero’s door, but there was no answer. Her fingers rested upon the iron knocker for a minute or so, and she bit her lip, uncertain if this meant she had been uninvited from dinner. She did not particularly wish to sit upon Diero’s step and wait for him - assuming he was not in - but nor did she want to leave in case he’d been called out for some emergency, and he returned to find he’d been stood up. She was still debating her options when the man in question appeared from around the corner holding a naked chicken by its feet.

As he neared the front door, Cerys noticed a cut across his hand. Thankfully, the wound seemed not to be so deep, as there was little blood. Her caught her looking and smiled fondly as her gaze rose to meet his. Shaking his head, he dismissed her fears.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

He passed the chicken to his free hand before lifting his wounded hand up to examine the scratch. “Who’d have thought Mrs Marsk’s chickens could be so vicious?” he asked with a chuckle.

“You should be careful. With the present threat of filth fever lurking behind every farmyard animal, every wound could prove to be fatal,” she said. He reached out and touched her arm, nodding.

“I will be,” he said. “Did you manage to catch Paelias?” he asked. Removing his hand from her arm, he stepped up to the door, retrieving a key from his pocket. Once he’d unlocked the door, he stepped inside and held the door open for Cerys.

“Yes. He had some interesting things to say,” she said.

“ _Interesting_  things? Well, that’s what I like to hear. Let me cook some dinner, and we can discuss whatever  _insightful_  thing Paelias had to say.”

Cerys nodded and closed the door behind her.

For every bite of her dinner Cerys took, her dinner bit back. She could not fathom how Diero could manage to eat food covered in so much pepper and garlic. The smell was borderline nauseating, and the taste was another thing entirely. Still, she ate without complaint. He seemed to be aware of her discomfort, however, for he occasionally watched her with curiosity and she raced to find anything to talk about that wasn’t the food before her.

“You haven’t touched your pipe in a while,” she said, glancing to him out the corner of her eye. Diero didn’t look up; not immediately anyway. He finished his current mouthful and the next before finally meeting her gaze.

“I know,” he said.

“Is everything alright?”

“I noticed how much you seem to dislike it.”

Cerys blinked a few times, suddenly a little flustered. She hadn’t expected him to change his behaviour on her account - nor did she wish for him to. “I apologise,” she said. “Really, pay no mind to me - it was rude of me to disapprove so openly,” she added, and turned her attention back to her near-empty plate, when he drew her gaze once more by placing his hand over hers.

“Some people smoke because they’re nervous,” he said. “You fill me with very much the opposite.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his tinderbox, turning it around between his fingers for a brief few moments, before placing it upon the table and pushing it towards Cerys.

She locked gazes with him for a moment, before a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “How rather amusing,” she said. He cocked his head in confusion. “For you make me ever so nervous.” Her smile spread across her lips, and his face mirrored hers.

“Is that so?”

“I always feel like I’m going to say some… stupid thing, or make a fool of myself, or that… I don’t know… that you’re secretly laughing at me when I leave.”.

“Why in the world would I laugh?”

“I always feel like people do,” she said. “I know how I look to others… I look… difficult, stubborn, and… other people can just  _do_  things. They can just put their heads down and get on with things - they don’t ask all these ridiculous questions. Until I get the answers, I obsess over my thoughts, and I’m… I’m  _petty_.”

Diero continued to watch her. Cerys’ blood ran cold in disbelief she’d blurted any of that out. Closing her eyes, her jaw clenched, and she went to stand up - to leave - when Diero’s hand resting atop hers gripped it instead.

“You haven’t said a single thing I disagree with,” he said, “but where you see humiliation in the way you are… those are the things I love about you.”

Cerys pulled her hand back, and clutched it to her chest. She stared at him, though he looked so calm, she wondered if he realised what it was he’d just said. Swallowing, she fiddled with her hair, attempting in vain to get it to lie flat. “Dragonspear Castle,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Paelias said he worked with some man in Daggerford at Dragonspear Castle. He said the passage about the lions was a reference to a shrine to Tempus at Dragonspear Castle,” she said.

“ _Oh_ ,” Diero grunted in surprise. He looked thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowed. “ _Oh_.”

“Is that unexpected?” she asked, but Diero did not answer. She held her breath, awaiting his insight, but it did not come, and instead, he pushed his chair out and rose to his feet. With narrowed eyes, he strode out of the room, leaving Cerys to clamber to her feet to follow him. “Mr Astorio?” she called after him, but once more he did not respond.

She followed him into his study, where he placed a hand upon a lantern hanging from the wall. With a quiet word beneath his breath, light flared from its form, casting the room into an unusually cool light. Under the pale glow, Diero looked more sickly than Cerys had ever seen him.

He then turned his attention to the map, his finger ghosting over two words: Dragonspear Castle. Cerys glanced from his outstretched arm to his drawn lips.

“Diero?” she whispered.

“Go home, Cerys,” he replied, quietly. “I will see you at work tomorrow.”

Cerys watched him for a moment longer, but he did not spare her so much as a glance. Inhaling sharply, she swallowed and nodded. “Of course,” she said, bowing her head. Gathering her things, she left without another word.

The night was dark, but Cerys was not ready to go home. She wasn’t sure she was ever ready to go home, and nor was she sure she ever had been, she’d just had nowhere  _else_  to go in the past.

As she headed back into the centre of the town, she toyed with the idea of making her way back to the Seven-Stringed Harp, but Paelias hadn’t seemed particularly pleased to see her earlier, and she didn’t much fancy being made to feel unwelcome for the third time in one day. There was only one other inn, in Secomber, and she knew nothing of it. Nor did she have  _any_ money.

She glanced around, not sure of what else there was to do in Secomber. Other than the fête in the summer, there wasn’t much that went on - besides the occasional goblin raid, which was usually dealt with long before Cerys got to hear  _of_  it.

Biting her lip, she turned her attention in the direction of Mara Marsk’s house. Her gut twisted as she looked back to the path that led to her  _own_  home. She screwed her features up, and headed back Mara’s way. Only, she didn’t stop when she reached the old woman’s rickety abode. Instead, she carried on, back towards the wilderness.

Travel in the dark was slower than it had been in the day, and without Diero to guide her, Cerys did worry she might find herself lost, but it did not deter her. She continued on, and with each step, the fear clinging to her legs seemed to dissipate. Somehow, she found the valley. Stood at the top of the hill, the valley was illuminated clearly by the light of the pale moon. The debris had been moved; placed into one pile in the centre of the valley.

Cerys swallowed, and headed down the hill, into the valley, making her way to the pile of wood. She took a piece and lit it with Diero’s tinderbox, casting light about the area.

“I’d put that out were I you,” came a calm voice from behind her. She froze in place, unable to move.

“Who is that?” she attempted to ask, though her voice came out as little more than a whisper.

“Someone interested by all this mess.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Would you answer, if I asked you?”

“No.”

“There we go, then.”

The voice seemed to be that of a man, though Cerys could not tell if he was old or young. His voice was deep, rumbling, and yet there was a softness to it, and a curiosity she identified with.

“Now,” he said. “As I was saying… I’d put that light out.”

“Why?”

“How far can you see with that light?” he asked. “Not much further than you can see without it, I imagine - especially on such a clear night as tonight… and yet… imagine just how many  _creatures_ can see  _you_  from all sorts of distances.”

Swallowing again, Cerys found no saliva in her mouth to swallow  _with_. He was right, however. Gritting her teeth, she dropped the broken plank and stamped on it, pressing it into the ground. The flame sputtered out leaving Cerys in darkness once more, her eyes desperately attempting to adjust to the dim light.

“Now why don’t you turn around so I can get a good look at you.”

It wasn’t a request. Cerys pressed her lips together and took a deep breath in. She closed her eyes and turned on the spot, dreading opening them again.

“Why are your eyes closed?” he asked. “Worried of what you might see?”

Cerys opened her eyes in defiance. Not so far away from her stood an imposing figure. Broad shoulders, decorated with metal pauldrons. Each reflected a tiny moon, and the reflected light lit his face; an ugly face with snubbish features and orange skin. Sharp teeth protruded from his mouth.

“What are you?” she asked.

“Not as weak as you are. That, I assure you.”

Cerys closed her eyes again, her palms cold and sweaty. “What do you want?”

The creature stepped closer to her, and she almost took a step away. Instead, she found her feet stuck firmly in place, fear holding her on the spot. “Well, I don’t want to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, towering over her. He was taller than anyone Cerys had met in Secomber. Taller even than Shandri’s sister.

She averted her gaze away from his bloodshot eyes, and caught sight of a scabbard at his waist.

“You’re not worth it,” he said, and she looked up again. “Where is the honour in killing an unarmed woman?”

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, voice cracking.

“I have orders,” he said, grinning. His smile exposed jagged teeth, more like shards of glass than teeth.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather kill me?” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t strike down an unarmed human. How pathetic that would be.”

He reached for her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering. His orange fingers didn’t quite reach her when he grunted in a mixture of surprise and rage. Cerys opened her eyes again and scrambled back, tripping on the wood she dropped onto the cold grass.

“Well  _I’m_  not unarmed, so perhaps you’d consider fighting me, instead,” came a familiar voice. Cerys squinted, straining to see in the dark. A tall woman, though not quite as tall as the orange creature, stood behind him, sword outstretched.

“Captain Dundragon?”

“Stay down, Jones.”

The creature turned, snarling, and drew his own blade, bringing it in an upward arc to meet Ciara’s. No sooner than had metal touched metal did Ciara pull her foot back, kicking her opponent in the side of the knee. His knee buckled and he stumbled back, but managed to stop himself before he collapsed down upon Cerys.

Taking no chances, Cerys shuffled backwards all the same - and not a moment too soon as the creature grabbed Ciara’s lengthy blade in his hand. Pulling, he managed to flip her over and she landed down on the grass where Cerys had been only moments ago. Within seconds, she was up on her feet again, but wasn’t fast enough. The creature’s sword swung down towards her, gaining momentum.

“Shit!” she hissed, bringing her arm up to defend herself. His sword clashed with her vambrace, and slid off to the side, but Ciara felt the blow. Crying out in pain, she stumbled back and landed, once more, beside Cerys. “Run,” she grunted. Cerys didn’t move. “I told you to run!” she said again, this time in a growl.

Cerys bit her lip and swallowed hard. Trembling, she slowly rose to her feet, placing a hand behind her to steady herself. She flinched as her fingers made contact with wood. She looked down at Ciara, picking herself up slowly. Grimacing at her own stupidity, Cerys pulled a plank from the pile of debris, and held it tight in two hands.

The creature turned its attention to her. His eyes widened, tiny moons glistening in their red hue that they looked like pools of blood.

“You’re challenging me?” he asked, a smile spreading across his cheeks.

“By the gods, how stupid  _are_  you?” Ciara hissed at Cerys, who had regretted her decision long before she’d even gone through with it. Cerys narrowed her eyes, attempting in vain to steel herself.

Neither Cerys nor Ciara managed to strike at the creature, for as he charged them, a bear leapt out of the darkness and tackled him to the ground.


	28. Drunk and Disorderly

Both the bear and the orange-skinned monstrosity struggled around on the grass for a minute or so. As they wrestled, Cerys could not tell which had the upper hand. Though the bear’s claws and jaw tore into orange flesh, its opponent did not seem to feel the pain, and they continued to writhe until the enemy managed to kick the bear away.

The bear rolled to the side, twisting into a blur of shapes, until rising from the grass was none other than the naked form of Shandri Kulenov. She lifted a hand into the air, and Ciara snatched the wooden plank from Cerys’ frail grip, before throwing it to her sister.

Shandri caught it in one hand, and glowered at the creature. “I’d suggest you leave.”

The creature picked himself up, spitting blood. He snarled. “I may be outnumbered, but I will never be outmatched!” To prove his point, he raised his own blade in the air.

“That was a poor choice, but it was your choice to make,” Shandri said. Lowering her arm, she drew her empty hand across the wood. A flare of light poured from the cracks in the grain. Without so much as waiting for a response, she swung the makeshift club at the creature.

Having expected the plank to shatter upon impact, Cerys was taken by surprise when the creature staggered back away from the blow. Shandri’s stern gaze twisted into a grin. The creature leapt at her, swinging his sword at her bare skin. His blade struck true, only Shandri neither recoiled nor bled. Where the sword made contact, shards of bark fell away from Shandri’s flesh.

The creature’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and rage, and he swung again, and again, and again. Shandri side-stepped with ease, before swinging the club at the side of his knee. It hit its target and the creature dropped to his knees.

“Now, Ciara!” she cried out.

Ciara gave a solitary nod, and pulled her own sword back. She swung. The blade followed through on its horizontal arc, cutting clean through the creature’s neck, before it could even register what was happening, and spraying Cerys with thick blood.

She whimpered. This attracted the attention of both Shandri and Ciara. Shandri regarded her with a mostly sympathetic look. Ciara, on the other hand, cocked a brow as if to remind Cerys she’d told her to run.

“What were you  _doing_  out here, Jones?” Ciara asked. “If Shandri hadn’t spied you leaving, you’d be  _dead_. You know that?”

Cerys shook her head. “No… he wasn’t going to kill me.”

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do. He wasn’t going to let you wander back off to Secomber, and that’s all that matters,” Ciara snapped. Cerys flinched. Shaking her head, Ciara scoffed and pulled a cloth from her bag, before proceeding to wipe her blade down. Shandri dropped the wooden plank to the floor and wandered off into the darkness for a minute or so. When she returned, she had her clothes bundled in her hands.

Cerys stared at her, not entirely sure where to direct her gaze. Shandri caught her uncertainty and smiled.

“Don’t be so silly. We’ve all got them,” she said, and lifted her dress up into the air, slipping it over her arms and body. “Are you alright, dear?”

“I’m fine,” Cerys whispered, but she was far from fine. Something orange had threatened to kidnap her, and then a bear had turned into Shandri and she wasn’t exactly sure what any of that meant. “Are… are you a bear?”

Shandri blinked a couple of times before smiling in amusement. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I’m a fish lost in the current… sometimes I’m a pigeon at the top of a great oak, taking in the beauty of the Sword Coast.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Cerys said, as if that made sense, when in all honesty, she was now more confused than she had been to begin with. “I’m… still…” she mumbled, lifting her hands to examine the blood splattered across them.

“Let’s get you home,” Shandri said.

“Shandri,” Ciara said. Shandri looked to her sister. “We should discuss this tomorrow. Come to the courthouse,” she said. Cerys noted the distinct lack of an upwards inclination if that were supposed to be a question. Before Shandri could respond, Ciara placed a hand upon Cerys’ shoulder and uttered a word beneath her breath. The blood spatters shrank until they disappeared entirely. With that, Ciara was already walking off back towards Secomber.

“I think I need a drink,” Cerys mumbled, still staring at her hands where the blood had been until only moments ago.

Shandri chuckled. “My shout, and then we really ought to get you home.” Cerys nodded, eagerly, and finally took a step away from the corpse of the orange-skinned creature.

The Singing Sprite was - by far - a thoroughly more pleasant tavern than the Seven-Stringed Harp. This was largely due to the fact it was a fair bit  _quieter_. As such, the crowd gathering within the walls of the Singing Sprite was almost entirely of a different class to Cerys. Any other night, she would have worried about her hair, or her clothes, or a number of other things. Tonight, however, Cerys could barely see the patrons past the image forming before her eyes of the headless, orange monstrosity.

“What was he?” she asked as Shandri sat down across from her on the cushioned bench. Shandri looked up, but Cerys’ gaze was fixed upon the table. She placed two glasses of bubbling clear liquid, and pushed one towards Cerys who took it in her hand.

“A hobgoblin,” she said. “There’s been more and more of them as of late. Sometimes they take people, sometimes they kill them.”

Cerys nodded. “Your sister.”

“What of her?”

“She’s…” Cerys paused to take a sip of her drink. She didn’t finish her thought. Shandri chuckled all the same.

“Fierce, blunt, incredibly brave,” she said. Cerys shrugged, but ultimately nodded, and Shandri laughed again. “There’s no one else I would rather in my corner.”

Tipping her head back, Cerys downed the remainder of her glass, and raised her hand in the air, grabbing the attention of a man about her own age, seeing to the bar. He inclined his head and she hailed him over.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Shandri scoffed. “Rather presumptuous,” she muttered beneath her breath. He turned his attention to the older woman, his eyes wide, evidently unsure of what he’d said that was so wrong. “Or are you simply hopeful?” she asked.

“...Can I help either of you…  _ladies_?”

Cerys nodded. “Strong drink. Stronger than this,” she said, tapping the rim of the wine glass. The barkeep glanced between Cerys and Shandri before his gaze finally settled on Shandri.

Shandri rolled her eyes. “I’m not her keeper. She wants a  _drink_ ,” she said, and leaned back in her seat. The young man narrowed his eyes before heading back to the bar. Shandri snorted. “They’ll hire anyone these days.” Leaning forwards again, she traced the rim of her glass with her index finger. “So, Miss Jones… mind telling me why my sister and I had to follow you out of Secomber and rescue you from the clutches of a hobgoblin?”

Cerys groaned and pushed her glass away, making room for her head on the scuffed wooden table. “I’m so stupid,” she said in a sigh.

“Well... let’s wait to hear  _why_  before determining whether or not you are - in fact - so stupid,” she said, and reached out to put a hand on Cerys’ forearm. Cerys sat bolt-upright, and pulled her arm in close to her chest. “I’m sorry,” Shandri said, somewhat taken aback by Cerys’ rather extreme reaction.

“Madevic Vargoba picked a fight with a wizard,” she said, “Diero and I went to investigate the…  _scene of the crime_ , if you will… I don’t know… I just wasn’t ready to go home, so I thought I’d have another look around.”

Shandri nodded, though Cerys was aware how ridiculous it all sounded. She appreciated Shandri’s support, nonetheless. “A hobgoblin wizard, was it?”

“I’m not sure,” Cerys said. “A red wizard.”

Eyes narrowing, Shandri took a sip of her wine. She drew breath to speak, but right as her lips parted, the barkeep came back with a stein of amber liquid, and - in a somewhat stroppy manner - slammed it down on the table in front of Cerys. Shandri slid a few silver coins over towards him, but otherwise didn’t so much as glance at him. He grabbed it and dropped it into his apron pocket before leaving once more.

“So… yes. I don’t know anything,” Cerys said. “I knew nothing of the situation, and decided to just… wander back in the night without telling anyone where I was going. Great idea.”

“I have no idea what Red Wizards would want with hobgoblins, but I suppose that’s up to Diero to puzzle out,” Shandri said. “Well, that’s assuming the two are related in the slightest. Anyway, drink up. We’d best get you home before your parents start to worry about your whereabouts.”

Cerys laughed. She doubted her parents would even notice, and if they did - they’d likely only be overjoyed; it was something else for her mother to milk for attention and sympathy, after all. Guilt clawed its way into her throat. She knew that wasn’t fair. He mother had been the first to snap at Madevic when he’d insulted her in front of her parents.

“Are you alright, Miss Jones?”

Cerys closed her eyes and nodded. “I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She lifted the stein to her lips and took deep, steady sips. By the time she could see the bottom, her face felt numb. “You know,” she said. “I found something.”

“Pardon?”

“I found something I didn’t tell Diero about.”

“Whyever not?”

Cerys laughed. “I don’t know. I just…  _didn’t_.”

Shandri cocked a brow and eyed Cerys curiously. “So… what was it you found, Miss Jones?” she asked, grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

Cerys responded with a sly grin of her own. Reaching into her pocket, she closed her fingers around the small shard of bone. She held it in her hand for a few seconds, before drawing her hand out and placing the shard down on the table.

With narrowed eyes, Shandri leaned forwards in anticipation, and as Cerys lifted her hand, she tilted her head to one side before reaching for it. Picking it up between two fingers, she turned it around, studying it from every angle. The shard itself wasn’t long, maybe an inch and a half, and it was roughly carved. Beneath the dirt and blood staining the one side of it, it was an ivory colour, though that wasn’t so visible by the dim tavern light.

“This is bone,” Shandri said, breaking the silence.

“I thought as much.”

“There’s an eye… like… like a needle.”

Cerys nodded in understanding, though everything seemed ever so slightly more distant than it had done a minute or so ago.

“Would you mind if I cast a spell upon it?” Shandri asked. Cerys gestured lazily for Shandri to do as she pleased, and leaned back in her chair. Shandri waved her hand in a particularly flamboyant gesture and half-whispered something nonsensical in the most mysterious way she could possibly think of, or so Cerys felt. Nothing happened. At least, nothing obviously visible happened. However, Shandri’s eyes widened for a moment, and she took a deep breath. She turned the needle once more, pursing her lips in concentration. “How… peculiar.”

“Peculiar?” Cerys grunted, leaning her head back. She threw her hand into the air, and rolled her head to the right to shoot the man at the bar her most scathing look. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his nostrils flaring in frustration, before plastering a false smile across his face. He nodded towards the empty stein upon the table and she closed her hand into a thumbs up.

“Most peculiar, indeed,” Shandri said and nodded in affirmation. She didn’t so much as glance up as the barkeep slammed the stein in front of Cerys once more, and again she slid the coins towards him without any further acknowledgement. Only, this time, after dropping the coins into his apron pocket, he didn’t leave. After he’d been standing there for a good two minutes, Shandri was given no choice but to turn her attention to him. “What?” she asked.

He scoffed. “Well, I just think if your friend here has the nerve to screw Madevic over, the least she could do is go over and say hello. He’s been trying to get her attention since she walked through the door.”

Cerys snorted. “I’m sorry…  _who are you_?” she asked. The man’s eyes widened for a moment.

“Finish your drink and just go. I’m not in the mood to deal with… whatever  _girls night out_  fiasco this is inevitably going to turn into.”

Cerys and Shandri watched the man in utter silence for a minute or so before breaking down into laughter.

“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Shandri said, lifting her glass of wine to toast with Cerys.

Cerys met Shandri’s glass with her own stein about half way. “To the swift recovery of Madevic Vargoba’s broken heart,” she said, chinking their drinks together. She rose to her feet, eyes scanning the crowd for Madevic. She found him sat on the far side of the tavern with two men she felt she probably ought to recognise, but the men her age all seemed to look the same, and they were impossible to tell apart. “Madevic!” she called out to him.

Madevic Vargoba looked up from his conversation, his brow furrowing in concern, which was absolutely the correct response, as Cerys’ grin grew as she caught his attention.

“Everyone, a toast to Madevic Vargoba and the swift recovery of the poor heart I utterly shattered when I so _rudely_  decided I’d rather improve my  _own_  life than marry him so he could have a stay at home wife in Waterdeep to cook him meals! What a poor, sorry gentleman!”

The man beside Cerys grimaced, gritting his teeth together. Gripping her shoulder, he turned her on the spot, and in a low growl, snapped something about getting out.

“We were just leaving,” Cerys laughed, and tipped her head back, downing her drink, though - admittedly - a fair bit of it ended up on the wrong side of her throat.

Madevic laughed from where he sat amongst his friends. “If only you’d drank like that when we’d gone out, Miss Jones,” he called to her.

Without sparing him a glance, Cerys thrust her hand into the air and waved an obscene gesture in his direction, before strutting towards the door. Shandri gathered her things, a little flustered as she chased after Cerys. The barkeep slammed the door behind them, shutting them out in the chill of the night.

“You’re terrible,” Shandri giggled.

“I’m not dead.”

“Well, keep talking to Madevic like that, and that might change. Though, that said… this seems to be the you he likes.”

“Shame. This is the me that doesn’t like him.”

“Good for you, dear. Now… if you don’t mind - we need to pay my dear sister a visit.”

Cerys nodded, though she had little idea what Shandri was on about. “Lead the way, bear!”


	29. Eye of the Needle

 At the sound of incessant and rather panicked hammering upon her front door, Ciara Dundragon leapt from her bed and rushed to answer it. She opened it to find two drunk women - barely recognisable as her usually-composed sister, and the painfully prim Cerys Jones.

“Are you two  _drunk_?” she asked, though she knew the answer. She folded her arms, pulling her cotton robe a little tighter across her body.

“I’m only tipsy,” Shandri said, raising her hand somewhat defensively, her other hand was occupied with holding Cerys upright.

“You drank wine,” Ciara grunted, evidently unimpressed. “What did  _she_  drink?”

“It was yellow,” Cerys said. “And tasted like it would take paint off the wall.”

“Oh  _good_.” Ciara sighed. “So did you come here to make it easier for me to arrest you for drunk and disorderly behaviour?” she asked. Shandri and Cerys both burst into a fit of giggles, causing Ciara to glower at the two of them with only more disdain.

“No, no… we came because…” Shandi paused to giggle, before taking a deep breath to calm herself, “Jones found something she doesn’t want to tell Diero about.”

“That’s… I didn’t… I just  _didn’t_ … it’s not that I didn’t  _want_  to.”

“Dear, if you’d wanted to tell him, you’d have told him,” Shandri said, almost scoldingly. “We can talk about your trust issues another time. Right now, we have something we need  _identifying_.”

Ciara’s eyes narrowed, her lips parting in disbelief. “What  _is_  this? The invasion of the Mystran church? This can wait until tomorrow.” With that, she went to shut the door, but Shandri stuck her foot in the way.

“No, no… You don’t understand, it’s important!” she insisted, and Ciara opened the door again. “Please? Just do this and we’ll leave.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ciara grunted, but Shandri didn’t move. Inhaling sharply, she flung the door open, and stepped aside. “Get in. Quick. So we can get this over and done with and you can  _leave_.”

Shandri cooed in excitement as she pulled Cerys into Ciara’s house. It was far smaller than Shandri’s. In fact, it was similar in size to her parents’ home - perhaps even a little smaller than  _that_. Whereas her parents’ home was cluttered - admittedly with necessary things - Ciara’s was shockingly bare. No shelves, one small table in the corner with one small chair. There didn’t seem to be any stairs that Cerys could see, and in fact, where she would have found the stairs  _were_ this her parents’ home, was a small bed. She cocked her head in confusion, unable to grasp how Shandri could live in the lap of luxury and allow her own sister to live in such poor conditions.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ciara said. Cerys had not been aware she was staring at Ciara, and she certainly had no inclinations as to any sort of  _way_  in which she had been looking at the woman. “I find it best to not judge others,” she grunted.

Cerys nodded, but the motion sent her spinning. She wasn’t  _aware_ that she was falling, but she must have been, for why else would Shandri Kulenov have needed to catch her?

“Oh! Do be careful, dear,” Shandri said, sitting Cerys down upon the one seat in the room. Cerys glanced around, not sure of how or when she’d made it to the chair, but the room gave her no clues. Sighing in defeat, she rested her head on the table.

“I feel…”

“Sick?”

“No…”

“Tired?”

“No…”

“Ah. Embarrassed.”

“ _No_.” She lifted her head to glower at Shandri, but Shandri was not standing where she had been a moment ago. In her place was Ciara, holding a small round object between two fingers.

“What am I puzzling out for you two?” she asked, glancing between them. Shandri placed the small bone needle down on the table. Ciara’s jaw clenched. “You came to my house to wake me up in the middle of the night to look at… whatever  _that_  is?”

“It’s not as simple as it looks,” Shandri said. “Miss Jones here found it where that hobgoblin was. I detected a faint whiff of divination magic about it - lingering, somewhat latent.”

“You’ve got be kidding me. This could have waited until the morning.”

“We don’t want Diero to get involved,” Shandri said, placing a hand on Cerys’ shoulder. Ciara glanced between them again, her gaze resting upon Cerys, just long enough to make it clear she was doing this for Shandri, and not for her.

Without another word, Ciara snatched the bone shard up from the table and closed her eyes. Whispering, and moving her hand in an arc, Cerys could almost  _feel_  a flickering change in the atmosphere. Both Cerys and Shandri lingered in silent awe, until without warning, Ciara thrust the needle back onto the table and took two hasty steps away from it.

“What in the planes  _is_  that?” she asked, casting Cerys an accusatory glance.

“Bone,” she slurred.

“Enough of that,” Shandri said, waving a hand in front of Cerys rather dismissively. “Ciara, what did you find out?”

Ciara shook her head. “The object itself isn’t inherently magical, but it’s been enchanted - imbued - with divination magic, and-”

“What is that mean?” Cerys asked. “Divination what?”

“Divination magic is usually used in… clarifying matters, such as finding a person, or an object, or learning the truth of a matter - predicting the future,” Shandri explained. “Why a needle would be  _enchanted_  with such magic is beyond me.”

Cerys turned her attention from Shandri and Ciara, and to the needle on the table. She picked it up, holding it between her two fingers. She began to turn it as Shandri had done in the Singing Sprite.

“Do you think it was part of some other ritual?” Shandri asked.

“That’s not the only magic I found clinging to that thing,” Ciara said. “It was designed to-”

Cerys didn’t let her finish. “To point to something?” she muttered. “Like a compass,” she said, and Ciara’s eyes narrowed. Cerys glanced over in time to see her nodding. “What else did you find? An enchanted compass needle hardly seems horrific enough that you would drop it and cower.”

“I didn’t  _cower_ ,” Ciara hissed. “I backed away, because that small needle possesses more necromantic energy than I’ve ever seen in one object.”

All of a sudden, Cerys felt painfully sober as an icy chill gripped her insides. Slowly, as if she were worried of disturbing some kind of evil spirit lingering within the bone, she lowered her hand and placed the needle down onto the table as gently as she could. She didn’t need telling about necromancy. There was plenty of mention of it in both of the books she owned. She shuffled the chair away.

“I didn’t sense any necromancy on the needle,” Shandri said.

“It’s not  _on_  it. It’s  _in_  it. Deep in there. Something horrible happened to whoever that bone belongs do.”

“Whoever?” Shandri asked, any joy in her voice vanishing. “ _This is human bone_?” She swallowed, and placed a hand upon Cerys’ shoulder, grasping tight. Cerys’ body stiffened under Shandri’s grip.

“Without a doubt, that is human bone.”

“We…” Shandri began, her tone already defensive, “ _might_  need to tell Mr Astorio,” she said.

Cerys nodded - one solitary nod - and rose to her feet. “I’ll tell him in the morning. In the meantime, what do I do with that?” she asked, gesturing to the bone.

“Hold onto it. Don’t lose it. Whoever this person was… they  _suffered_  - a  _lot_  - for someone to acquire their bones. That’s not the sort of thing someone is going to be comfortable with losing,” Ciara said. “They might come back for it.”

“Do you think that’s why the hobgoblin was there?” Cerys asked. Ciara looked thoughtful for a moment, before shaking her head.

“I’ve seen hobgoblins cast magic, but… not  _this_  kind of magic. They have some kind of code of honour. I don’t imagine this aligns particularly well with that code,” she said. “It’s possible, but it’s best we talk about this tomorrow  _with_  Diero.”

“Of course,” Shandri said, nodding. “We should get you home now,” she added, patting Cerys on the back.

Ciara shook her head. “Stay. I don’t trust you to get home safely when you’ve been out drinking.”

Scoffing, Cerys folded her arms. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

“With all due respect, Jones. One of us is captain of the guard in this town, and the other is a… small…  _vulnerable_  woman. If you walk out that door, I’ll arrest you and you can sleep in the cells.”

Cerys’ eyes widened in protest, but she said nothing. Nostrils flaring, she scoffed and glowered down at the small bone needle. Rolling her eyes, she shoved it down into one of her pockets and shrugged. “Well then, I’d best get to bed,” she grunted.

Cerys ran her hand over the soft curve of Diero’s bare shoulder, and pressed her lips to his shoulder blade.

“Hey,” she whispered, digging her fingers into his thick hair, inhaling deeply the musky scent of his bedsheets.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Ciara said in a drawn-out sigh, yanking Cerys from her mid-way slumber. “Would you mind letting go of me now?”

Cerys’ eyes opened to the sight of Ciara’s resting form beside her on the floor. Swallowing, but saying nothing, she slowly shuffled back away from the woman, and rose to her feet. With held breath, she grabbed her bag from the chair and stepped over Ciara, heading straight for the front door.

“You know I  _am_  awake, Jones,” Ciara said, evidently most unimpressed, “so sneaking isn’t really necessary.”

Cerys cringed, stopping in her tracks. Glancing nervously over her shoulder she grimaced. “Sorry,” she said.

Ciara sat up, stretching. “For what? Sneaking? Or spooning?” she asked, and Cerys wrapped her arms around herself. “Honestly, Jones, I couldn’t care less. It’s worse in the barracks, and that’s  _men_. I’ll take a cuddle with a woman any day over  _that_.”

“Can we,” Cerys said, far too high pitched for her own liking. She paused to clear her throat, and repeated herself in a far more favourable pitch. “Can we stop saying things like  _that_?”

Ciara’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something wrong with the idea of cuddling with me?”

“Not  _you_ , no… I just… I don’t… I don’t do…  _that_.”

“Cuddle with  _women_?”

Cerys cringed again at the word. “Not  _women_ , just… in… I don’t…  _cuddle_. I don’t  _touch_ , I don’t  _kiss_ , I don’t…”

Ciara’s eyes narrowed in confused silence. She drew breath several times, as if about to say something, but not sure of how to word it. In the end, she settled on a bewildered curve to her brow and an uncertain smile. “You don’t  _cuddle_?” she asked. “Why?”

“Can we just… not talk about that? Or this. Ever again.”

Scoffing, Ciara raised her hands in the air in defeat. “No skin off my back. You’re still alright with me bragging about it in the barracks, though… right?” she asked. Cerys turned pale. “Lighten up, Jones! I’m joking.”

“You know what one of those is?” Shandri asked, stepping through the front door. Cerys had not heard the door open, and jumped, stumbling away from the sudden intrusion.

“Hilarious,” Ciara grunted. “So where did  _you_ run off to this morning?”

“I went to get a fresh set of clothes for myself and Miss Jones, here,” Shandri said, reaching into her bag and retrieving one of Cerys’ dresses. Cerys narrowed her eyes as the dress was presented to her. She took it in her hands and unfolded it. It certainly  _was_  her own.

“Please tell me you didn’t go to my house.”

“Oh, I did - but don’t worry, I didn’t bother your parents,” she said. “I was a spider at the time.”

“I’m sorry…  _what_?”

“I turned into a-”

“You turned into a spider, sneaked into my house, and  _stole_  some of my clothes?” Cerys asked, utterly bewildered by what Shandri was saying. “ _Just so we’re clear on what happened here_.”

Shandri pursed her lips, evidently uncertain of the correct response to that. She glanced to her sister for backup, but Ciara rose to her feet and folded her arms.

“Well,” Shandri sighed, “I mean…”

“Just so we’re clear,” Ciara said, “going into someone’s house without permission is a criminal offence.” An entirely too pleasant smile spread across her lips, and Shandri scrunched her nose up and shook her head.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to face your parents looking like you spent a drunken night sleeping on the floor,” Shandri said, glancing to Cerys who had the decency to at least look a little sheepish.

“On second thoughts, I’m dropping charges,” Cerys said. “Sorry for wasting your time, Captain.”

With a theatrical sigh, Ciara shook her head. “Well isn’t that a shame, I was looking forward to throwing her behind bars for a day,” she said. “Anyway, you should get changed, we’re probably late.”

Cerys wasn’t sure if she was supposed to change  _here_ , or if there was somewhere more private she could go. She drew breath to ask, but it quickly turned into a gasp and a terrified squeak as Ciara began to strip off in front of her. Averting her gaze, she turned to Shandri to help, but the other woman was already out of the house and shutting the door behind her. 


	30. Cold Blood

Without knocking, Ciara flung the open door to Diero’s office. Diero Astorio was just about to sit down, when the sudden rush of air sent the papers upon his desk scattering in every direction. Clenching his jaw, he didn’t even glance up as he attempted to gather them up. Cerys quickly pushed past Ciara to help Diero.

“Good morning, Captain,” he groaned, before adding under his breath, “though I’m not sure there’s ever a good morning when you’re around.”

“Good morning, Diero,” Cerys responded. Diero flinched and lifted his gaze to meet hers. For a moment he looked utterly confused, before he turned his attention to the door, where Ciara was still standing.

“So, Captain,” he said with a sigh, “would you mind telling me why my prisoner was released?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ciara said. “I didn’t see any of  _ your _ prisoners when I was releasing  _ mine _ . He wasn’t charged with any crime, so I saw no need for him to be there any longer than necessary -  _ and _ given his imprisonment was utterly  _ un _ necessary, I felt it pertinent to release him as soon as possible.”

“That explains why Madevic was at the bar last night,” Cerys said, cocking a brow.

“You were at the bar last night?” Diero asked, looking vaguely taken aback. “I didn’t have you down as the sort.”

Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “And what in the world is  _ that _ supposed to mean, Mr Astorio?”

“Oh! No. Nothing. There’s nothing wrong. I’m just… You look pale, are you alright?” he asked, desperately changing the subject. Cerys would have been lying if she said she did not enjoy seeing him being the flustered one for once. “So… Captain,” he said before Cerys could answer him. “What do you actually want?”

“We need to talk about your case.”

“And what case would that be?”

“You went investigating Vargoba’s fight with the Red Wizard, did you not?” she asked. Diero didn’t deny it. “Shandri, here, asked Jones to take her to the site of your investigation, in the valleys,” she said, stepping to the side to reveal Shandri standing in the hall. Shandri didn’t even flinch at being dragged into some mistruth. Cerys supposed Diero liked Shandri an awful lot more than he liked Ciara, and was less likely to be irritated about Cerys giving details of the case to Shandri - not that she liked being involved in this lie, at all. Of course, the alternative would be to admit she’d gone there alone. 

“Dear Cerys wanted to look for more clues.”

“And did you find any?” Diero asked, turning his attention to Cerys a little too enthusiastically.

“That’s less important than what happened when they arrived,” Ciara said, drawing Diero’s gaze to herself instead. He inclined his head for her to continue. “Jones was ambushed by a hobgoblin. Luckily, I followed my sister when I spied her leaving town. If I hadn’t… well.”

“My goodness, Cerys! Are you alright?” Diero asked turning - once again - back to Cerys. He took her by her shoulders. She froze mid-squat, and very nearly dropped the papers she was holding. "I knew I should have walked you home.”

"Show him the needle, Cerys.”

“Needle?”

Pulling herself from Diero’s grasp, Cerys rose to her feet, and placed her stack of papers onto the table before reaching into her pocket, retrieving the needle. She placed it atop the papers. Diero reached for the desk, but Cerys was quicker. Plucking his glasses from the table, she placed them into his hands. He smiled appreciatively and pushed them up his nose before picking the needle up between his forefinger and his thumb.

“What  _ is _ this, Cerys?”

“I believe it’s a needle of some sort. Shandri detected divination magic upon it, and Ciara confirmed that. Furthermore, she discovered that whoever it had belonged to suffered a great deal in their death,” she said.

He stroked his chin with his free hand and looked to Ciara who nodded in confirmation. “That is worrying.”

“Human bone,” she said. “It reeks of necromancy.”

Diero pressed his lips together in concern. “I need to think about this. And you say a hobgoblin was there?” he asked.

“Not just  _ there _ ,” Cerys said. “ _ Someone _ put all the debris in a pile - like they were going to burn it. Like… they were going to get rid of the evidence, perhaps.”

Diero swallowed. “Right,” he said. “Well, Captain,” he paused to nod, before turning his attention to Shandri, “Ms Kulenov.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Ciara said, beating him to the punch. Diero nodded in appreciation as she saw herself out of the room, shutting the door behind her. 

He remained silent for an age, his breath held as he listened closely. Then, without warning, he pulled the curtains closed and strode around the table to the door, locking it. He lingered in place for a moment, his palm against the door.

“Diero?” 

Finally, he turned around to face her, and swallowed. “Cerys,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” 

He didn’t respond, and for a moment, Cerys was certain he was about to ask her to leave, when he sighed and bowed his head. Making his way back to the desk, he pulled the chair out and gestured for her to take a seat. Trembling, she lowered herself into the seat and placed her hands atop the desk.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked. Cerys said nothing. She  _ had _ done, until this moment. “Cerys?” He placed a hand upon her shoulder.

“Of course,” she said, perhaps a little too hastily, though she could not bring herself to look at him. “Of course I do,” she repeated, as if saying it again would make it true.

He sighed in relief, and removed his hand. She kept her sights firmly trained upon her own hands, and resisted the urge to look as he clattered around behind her. She flinched as he placed a dainty cup and saucer between her palms. It looked very much like the ones Shandri favoured, and she had to wonder if this had been a gift from the woman. 

She was rather aggressively drawn from such thoughts, when Diero slammed upon the table a corked bottle containing a dark crimson liquid.

“Is… is that  _ blood _ ?” she asked, short of breath.

“I know it looks bad… but honestly, a surprising amount of spells require parts from animals. This is chicken’s blood.”

“How  _ fresh _ is this?” Cerys asked, though she felt she knew the answer.

Diero stood in silence for a moment. “I acquired this last night,” he admitted, his voice hollow. “I wanted to get into the mind of the Red Wizard. I thought if I had the blood, I could find out what he was doing out there,” he said. Placing his hand on the back of Cerys’ neck, he ran his fingers through her hair. She shuddered as a shiver ran down her spine, seizing up as he lowered his head to her cheek. “Cerys,” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes, Diero?”

“This… Other people wouldn’t understand what we are doing here. This just got a whole lot more complicated. I know you are good friends with Shandri, but…” He trailed off. “I can’t ask you to do this. I can’t ask you to keep things from your friends.” Sighing, he ceased raking his nails through her hair and stood up straight. “I’m sorry, Cerys. I crossed a line. This case is bringing out the worst in me… I’m just so… I’m  _ scared _ .”

“I won’t tell her,” Cerys said before she could stop herself. She wasn’t sure if she could no longer feel her heartbeat because it had stopped, or because it was racing so fast she couldn’t keep up with it.

“I can’t ask that of you, Cerys.”

She rose to her feet so suddenly she surprised the both of them. Turning to face him, she struggled to find the words. “I… I  _ know _ you’re scared,” she said. “I saw it, last night. I don’t know what’s going on - I don’t understand any of this, Diero... but I’m willing to learn… and I… I don’t want you to go through this alone,” she said, catching her breath.

Staring into her eyes, his brow furrowed. He took her hands in his and lifted them to his chest. “I couldn’t have asked for someone better,” he said. He let go of her hands, his fingers ghosting up her arms and across her shoulders until he held her cheeks in cupped hands. Cerys watched him in silence, and as he leaned in towards her, his lips parting, she was absolutely certain she was going to faint on the spot.

Turning her head away from him, she took a half-step away. “So… the… the needle.”

Diero cleared his throat and pulled his hands away from her, placing them instead on the back of the chair. “Of course,” he said, tapping the wood. “Please.” 

Nodding, Cerys sat back down again and watched Diero uncork the bottle of chicken blood. Taking care to not splash any across the desk, he filled the small teacup with the dark contents of the bottle. Once it had been sufficiently filled, he lifted Cerys’ hand and pressed the needle into her palm.

“This was your clue,” he said.

Her gut twisted violently. She knew she shouldn’t. Slick with sweat, her fingers only just about managed to keep ahold of the shard of bone. But it was too late to back out. She was already involved. With a grim nod, she carefully placed the needle down on top of the blood. At first, it bobbed under the surface, spilling blood down the sides of the teacup that was - rather fortunately - caught by the saucer beneath it. After bobbing a few times, it rose back up to float atop the blood, and started to twist back and forth like the needle of a compass.

“Where’s it pointing?” Cerys asked.

Diero said nothing, and instead reached into a drawer, pulling out a small brass compass. Comparing the needle in the blood to the north-pointing needle of his compass, he sighed. “West...  maybe very slightly southwest.”

“What else is to the southeast?”

Diero shook his head and sighed. “Honestly? Not a lot… Julkoun… Daggerford… Not a lot else,” he said.

Cerys stomach turned over. “Paelias Meliamne - he said there was a man in Daggerford who’d dealt with Red Wizards at that place, Dragonspear Castle,” she said.

“But what do hobgoblins have to do with this?” Diero asked with a sigh.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Cerys said “There have been more and more goblin attacks in recent years, maybe they were just curious about what had happened there. After all,  _ we  _ were. Why wouldn’t  _ they _ be?” 

“Possibly, but something tells me there are pieces of this puzzle we’ve yet to put together…” he said. “I’m sorry about all this Cerys, but I don’t know who I can trust besides you, anymore.”

“What makes you so sure you can trust me?” Cerys asked with a wry laugh. He placed a hand upon her back, tracing shapes with his finger. She shuddered, though it was not unpleasant.

“You’re an honest person. So few people are, but there’s a raw honesty about you. You don’t try to pretend you’re anything you’re not. I feel… a… connection with you that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before,” he said. “I feel like you understand. Or you’re willing to see the bigger picture. People like Ciara… they get caught up in the details, and they lose sight of why we’re doing what we’re doing.”

“I suppose you’re not wrong about that,” Cerys said, her father coming to mind. “What now?”

“What now, indeed,” Diero said, letting out a heavy sigh.


	31. Sitting Duck

The rest of the day at work was largely uneventful. Which is to say, things happened, but nothing quite as startling as some strange ritual involving the blood of a chicken and a piece of human bone. Mostly, Cerys reorganised Diero’s shelves while he sat in his chair, staring absentmindedly at the now-clean teacup. It was only just past noon when she had finished reorganising the final shelf. Unsure of what else to do with herself, she turned to Diero and watched him in silence, waiting for him to take notice of her.

It took a good few minutes of silence before his gaze strayed from the cup, wandering across her shoulders and finally resting upon her face. She inclined her head. He shook his own and blinked rapidly.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he asked, forcing a laugh. “I was in a world of my own there,” he added under his breath.

“No,” she said, attempting a smile. “I just didn’t want to disturb you. You looked… deep in thought.” She fell silent once more, waiting for him to say something -  _anything_. Instead, his gaze fell down to the cup again. “Diero,” she said, grabbing his attention once more.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Hey, why… why don’t you just take the rest of the day off?” he asked.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I’m here to help… You know that, right?”

Nodding, he leaned back in his chair, and rested his hands in his lap. “I know, Cerys. I appreciate it. I just… I need to think about things.”

Cerys remained in place for a moment, biting on her lower lip. Eventually, she turned, with a sigh, and headed towards the door. Her hand stopped just shy of the lock when she heard his voice.

“Cerys?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Diero?”

He hesitated, wetting his lips. “How… How would you like to go for a drink later?” he asked, lifting his gaze to meet hers. She blinked a few times, and leaned away.

“I…”

“I’m sorry… that was unprofessional.”

“No,” she said, perhaps a little too hastily. “It’s…  _not_. Would it be unprofessional for you and Ms Evenwood to go for a drink after work?” she asked.

“Well, no, but…”

“But what?” she asked, trying her hardest to not look as hopeful as she felt.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not unprofessional.” He paused for a moment to take a deep breath. “I will swing by your house after work.”

“Actually, I was thinking of going down to the river,” she said. “I’m not really ready to face the inquest into why I didn’t go home last night,” she added in a scoff. Diero nodded in understanding.

“I really am sorry about last night, Cerys,” he said. “I should have walked you home. I’ve felt…  _sick_  to my core - all day. If Ciara hadn’t been there… Well, I’m sure Shandri could have handled herself, but if anything had happened to you…”

“Diero,” she said, cutting him short. He looked at her. “I’ll see you at the river, later.”

“Of course,” he said.

“I’ll try not to pick a fight with any hobgoblins along the way, if you promise to eat something - and have a drink,” she said. Grinning weakly, he rolled his eyes and waved his hand in a dismissive motion for her to leave. Smirking, she turned back to face the door, unlocked it, and let herself out.

The early afternoon air was crisp with the chill of the approaching winter. Despite this, the day was surprisingly mild, and it was only when the wind blew that Cerys regretted Shandri not bringing her a coat. Still, she persisted.

It took her a good half an hour, in her meandering state, to get to the riverside. The occasional brown leaf flecked the surface of the water, carried downstream by the lazy current, and Cerys walked slower still, making her way to the only bench in sight. She threw herself down onto the hard wooden seat.

She jumped out of said seat when someone sat down beside her, and stumbled away from the bench. Looking up, her gaze landed on none other than Madevic.

“Where did you even  _come_  from?” she asked, eyes darting about, as if she might see some magic portal he had stepped through. When there was no abnormality in sight, her eyes narrowed and she turned her attention back to him. “ _Why_  are you here?”

“You looked suspicious,” Madevic said, resting his arm across the back of the bench. He ran his free hand through his hair, looking about as smug as it was possible for one man to look. “You’re very unperceptive. You know that, right?”

“Oh gods, just go away, Madevic. I’m not in the mood,” Cerys grunted, folding her arms. She could feel a rash forming upon her chest, flustered that she’d not noticed him following her, and more than a little unsettled by how brazenly he had admitted to it.

“Sit,” he said, lowering his arm from the back of the bench to pat the seat beside him. She scoffed. “C’mon.” With his other hand, he reached for a bag by his feet she hadn’t noticed before. “We can feed the ducks.”

“What in the world do you think this is, Mr Vargoba? A date?” She grunted, but sat beside him all the same. “I mean, really…” she added in a mutter beneath her breath, arms still folded. Glancing out across the river, she didn’t spot any ducks.

“So, Cerys…”

“Miss Jones.” Cerys could practically  _hear_  Madevic’s eyes rolling in their sockets.

“Fine.  _Miss Jones_ , I’ve been mean meaning to ask you something.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr Vargoba, but I’m not going to reconsider your proposal. You’ll have to find some other hapless girl to harass, but thank you for stopping by - I do love the attention,” she said, casting him a pointed stare.

“You really think you’re that much better than me,  _Miss Jones_?”

“Well… one of us can read, has a job, and has friends who have interests other than… well...  _drinking_.”

“Are you going to let me ask my question or not?”

“I’m hoping if I keep insulting you, you’ll get the message and leave.”

“I thought you were boring, you know that? I don’t know if you’re in the middle of some early-onset midlife crisis or something, but there’s… a fire about you that I haven’t seen before. I like it,” he said.

“Oh gods, please. Just stop. Ask your question, and then you can go.”

“Why? Are you waiting for someone?” he asked. “Someone you’d rather not catch sight of us together? Someone who works at the courthouse, perhaps?”

“Is that your question?”

“Fine. You got me,” he said, sighing. “Look… that book. You said you’d read it. You’ve always got it with you… You gave up the promise of a good life-”

Snorting, Cerys shot him a look of disdain, momentarily silencing him. “I’m not sure I’d go as far as to call it the  _promise of a good life_ , Mr Vargoba,” she said.

“Whatever. You turned me down for that book. What’s it about? What was worth so much?” he asked.

Cerys turned her gaze to her lap and inhaled deeply. “You know… everyone is so interested in this book. This book could be about anything, Mr Vargoba. I didn’t buy it for what it was about. My parents were sick, and Mr Astorio…  _Diero_  offered me a way to heal them.”

“Don’t you find it suspicious he made you buy a book to heal them? He made you spend your dowry,” he said. “Does he… Are you two…?”

“Gods…  _no_. He’s my...  _mentor_  - a colleague.”

“You don’t want him to be your mentor, Cerys. I’m pretty sure half the town can see that. I’m pretty sure  _he_  can see that.”

“I don’t want to talk about the nature of my relationship with Mr Astorio -  _my boss_  - with the man I was  _supposed_  to marry. I’m sure you can appreciate that,” Cerys said with a sigh. “Regardless, as you’re so interested, the book is about Khelben Arunsun… the Blackstaff.”

“That’ll explain why it’s so large,” Madevic said with a laugh. “Busy guy, he was. From what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Oh yes. He was. Currently, I’m reading about his time in the Harpers, and his departure from amongst their ranks to form the Moonstars - also known as the Twelvestars,” she said. “I wonder if he found his interest in Oghma when… well, it’s only rumoured, but supposedly he spent some time in Candlekeep. They’re all rather devout to Oghma, there. I find it curious the Moonstars followed Mystra, Oghma,  _and_  Sehanine Moonbow, and not just Mystra alone, but such is the way it is.”

“Sehanine Moonbow?” Madevic cocked a brow. “I don’t recall her being associated with knowledge.”

“She is an unusual fit, but from what I understand, there are plenty of other aspects to her portfolio, such as journeying and dreams, that could easily give knowledge to the right person.”

Madevic took a deep breath. “Well, I guess I was right about one thing. You really  _are_ boring,” he said, and clapped her on the back. She choked on her breath, having not expected him to touch her, let alone  _hit_  her. “So what are you going to do with all this… random knowledge?”

Rubbing her back, Cerys leaned away from him, putting distance between the two of them on the bench. “I’m not sure. Mr Astorio thinks the book alludes to something… and Mr Meliamne-”

“Paelias?” Madevic asked, cocking a brow. “And you claimed your friends liked things other than drinking.”

Cerys groaned, before continuing. “Never mind that. He said it feels like an adventure and wants to come along, though I’m not sure where there is to come along to.”

“Well, if you  _are_  going on adventure, you can count me in.”

“I would rather go with one of Mrs Marsk’s chickens than you, Mr Vargoba.”

Madevic eyed her for a moment, staring deep into her eyes. She leaned away further, but he simply leaned closer, watching her intently. Eventually, he straightened his back and rose to his feet, brushing himself down. “You know, Miss Jones… I always feel like you want to jump me, but I can’t tell if that’s in a  _good_  way or a _bad_  way.”

The corners of Cerys’ lips twitched upwards into a satisfied grin. “That’s probably for the best. I’m sure you enjoy sleeping at night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, Mr Vargoba… if I told you the things I dream of doing to you, you’d likely never sleep again.”

Madevic fell silent for a moment, before narrowing his eyes. “Once more, I can’t tell if that’s a  _good_  thing or a  _bad_  thing.”

“Good evening, Mr Vargoba. I’m sure we’ll see each other fairly soon. Perhaps I will see you when I am at work,” she said, and waited for him to draw breath to speak, before reaching across to grab his bag of bread and interrupting him. “ _Bye_.”

Rolling his eyes once more, Madevic bowed with a flourish, and turned to leave, shaking his head as he wandered back in the direction of the town centre. He was only a few feet away, when he stopped and turned to face her once more.

“What  _now_?” she asked, nostrils flaring in evident frustration.

“You do know Blackstaff Tower is in Waterdeep, right?”

“What?”

“His tower - well…  _he’s_  not there anymore, but his tower and the current Blackstaff are still there. In Waterdeep.”

“Okay?”

“It’s stunning. Well, I mean, Waterdeep is pretty stunning in general - but the tower itself is a whole different matter. One of my friends said parts of it were built from the ore mined in the Undermountain.”

“That  _what_?” Cerys asked. “The Undermountain, did you say?”

“Yeah, apparently they used to mine mithral there or something.”

Cerys shook her head. “What is that? What is  _mithral_?”

“Oh, my friend has a chain shirt made from it. It’s like steel, but shinier, lighter,” he said. “Why the sudden interest in mithral?”

Biting her lip, Cerys rose to her feet. “And you say that’s in Waterdeep?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Thank you for this enlightening conversation, Mr Vargoba,” she said, taking a few strides until she was standing before him. He grunted in surprise as she pushed the bag of bread into his hands. “I still think you’re beyond vile. Please don’t talk to me again, and if I ever catch you following me, I’ll have you arrested. Not even Captain Dundragon can save you from me,” she said, with a false smile.

With that, she stepped around him and headed back to town.


	32. Starry-Eyed

Cerys found Diero along the path back to Secomber town centre. Truth be told, she was so lost in her own thoughts, she very nearly collided with him, however, he stepped out of the way and caught her with his hands just in time to save the both of them from the embarrassment.

“Diero!” she half-gasped.

“You seem surprised to see me,” he said.

“No, no! I was looking for you.”

Diero inclined his head in confusion. “I was coming to look for  _you_. Is something the matter?” he asked. Cerys shook her head.

“We need to go to your study to talk,” she said. Without questioning her, he bowed his head and walked by her side, back into the town centre. They said nothing as they walked, and it wasn’t until they were standing outside Diero’s front door that the man in question finally broke his silence.

“Something tells me we won’t be getting that drink,” he said with a chuckle. Cerys smiled somewhat sheepishly in apology. “It is no worry. We can always have a glass of wine over this discussion, and get a drink together another time.”

She nodded, and waited for him to open the door, before heading straight in, and down to the study, Diero in tow.

“Before we start, Cerys, I feel I ought to say I had a long think today about what you said the other night,” he said. “While it would make sense for Lavinia Greenbottle to have something to do with the death of your pigs, it would require Shandri to play a part. If she wanted you gone, she had the perfect way to get rid of you. She could have let you die to the hobgoblin, and no one would have suspected her,” he said.

Cerys stopped in the centre of the room. She hadn’t considered that. Shandri knew Cerys was investigating the case, it  _would_  have been the perfect way to put a stop to all her snooping. “What  _are_ your thoughts then?”

“I started thinking about what went into the cake,” he said. “Milk, flour,  _eggs_.”

“Mrs Marsk?” Cerys asked. “You think she would infect her own chickens with filth fever to kill me and my family?”

“What if it was not intentional?” he asked.

“Then what about Miri - the other pig that died.”

“Possibly a coincidence,” he said. “Did you spot any rat droppings at Mrs Marsk’s house when you were over? Or anything that would suggest rats  _might_ have been there?”

Sighing, Cerys shrugged and shook her head. “It pains me to speak ill of Mrs Marsk, Diero, but she could have had a  _goblin_  infestation and I wouldn’t have been able to see it through all the rubbish and filth,” she said. “However… if rats  _were_ present, I would expect more dead chickens, and if Mrs Marsk’s chickens were dead, don’t you think she would know? She noticed when merely  _one_  was missing - she names them.”

“Just because she didn’t tell you doesn’t mean she didn’t notice,” Diero said. “And you mentioned she was startled at the fête when her chickens escaped. All I’m asking is we consider it,” he said.

“Absolutely. I will think about it,” she said.

“Now, what did you wish to discuss?” he asked.

“The third location,” Cerys said, eyes lighting up. Diero cocked his head in eager curiosity. “Waterdeep.”

“Waterdeep?”

“We assumed these locations had something to do with the Hells or the Abyss or what have you, but I think that was more coincidence than anything. Khelben Arunsun was an adventurer, and he wasn’t afraid of sticking his nose into utter messes. It stands to reason he was involved in more than a few incidents that dealt with devils and demons,” she said. “It got me thinking about one of the passages we read.”

Cerys paused to pull the book out of her bag. Dropping it onto the table, she flicked through the pages until she found the scraps of parchment she was looking for, and shuffled them about until she found the one, in particular, she had in mind.

“Once, the rock was rich. Veins of glimmering ore ran through it, like rivers through a valley. It was not long after the minerals were discovered that they found their way into the fires that burned them into shapes of war,” she read. “It’s talking about mithral - from the Undermountain. Mithral that was possibly used in the construction of the Blackstaff tower.”

Diero nodded in understanding, his lips pursed as he concentrated on her voice. He left her hanging in silence for a moment after she finished talking, before slapping his hand against his thigh. “Well, Cerys… you might be onto something.”

“Maybe,” she said, biting her lip. She glanced over his shoulder at the map on the wall. Following her gaze, Diero nodded his head for her to follow him to the wall hanging. She made her way to beside him, and he took her wrist, guiding her finger to Waterdeep. “Here?” she asked, reading its label beneath her fingers.

“Here,” he said, letting go of her hand.

Nodding, she lowered her hand again. “So… now, what?” she asked.

“Very good question,” he said, rocking back on his feet, one arm folded and the other stroking his beard.

Cerys mirrored his actions, tapping her chin instead of stroking it. The two of them stared at the map as if it might miraculously answer all their questions. They took it in turns drawing breath to suggest something, and then thinking better of it and sighing instead. After a good thirty - rather fruitless - minutes, Diero let out a loud groan, and threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

“If I don’t do something else, I’m going to go crazy.”

“I agree,” Cerys said. “I’m just getting a headache,” she added, becoming suddenly aware of a throbbing in her head.

“Drinks. That’s what we need.”

Diero disappeared from the study, leaving Cerys alone to desperately ponder her own thoughts. She rested against the desk and exhaled a heavy sigh. She counted the locations on her fingers once, twice, three times, as if that might give her clarity. It was on her fourth count when she stopped at two fingers. Taking the index finger of her other hand, she placed it across the top of her fingers to form a triangle.

Her eyes narrowed as she rose to her feet. She straightened her arms out in front of her, framing the map in the gap between her fingers. Chewing on her lower lip, she stepped towards the map, and placed her fingers against the parchment, each point of her triangle resting upon one of the three locations, and in the centre was a mountain.

“Hey, Diero?” she called, turning her head ever so slightly towards the doors, whilst keeping her gaze firmly planted upon the mountain in case it were to disappear should she glance away for even a moment.

“Yes?” he called back from the kitchen.

“Would you come and have a look at this?”

There were a few seconds of clattering, and the sound of Diero hissing a curse beneath his breath, before he finally appeared in the doorway with two glasses of wine. “What’s that?” he asked, his brow furrowing at the sight of Cerys pressing her fingers to the map.

“Triangulation, I believe it is called.”

“I… beg your pardon?” he asked, stepping past her to place the wine glasses down upon his desk.

“Well, I’m no expert on it, but I read about it in my book on Drizzt Do’Urden. It’s where you-”

“No, I’m aware of what triangulation  _is_  Cerys. Just… what…” He didn’t finish his sentence as his gaze flitted from each of the points of her triangle to what lay in the centre. His eyes widened. “Cerys. You… you did it.”

“I think I did, yes,” she said.

Diero exhaled sharply and flung his arms around her waist from behind. Caught off guard, she let out a terrified yelp and struggled against his grapple. He let go swiftly.

“I’m… incredibly sorry, I could just… I could  _kiss_  you.”

Cerys choked on her breath. A wrangled “ _oh_ ,” was all she managed to get out, heat rushing to her cheeks.

“Those are the Star Mounts!”

“I… have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m going to assume it’s important.”

“Unicorn Run!”

“More words I know, but still lacking context, Diero.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m excited!” Diero said in a laugh.

“Yes, I can tell,” Cerys said, unable to stop herself from catching his contagious laugh. “Perhaps you could take some deep breaths and explain this to me in detail?” she suggested.

“Yes, of course,” he said, following her advice to take deep breaths. “Beneath Unicorn Run is-”

“The Vault of the Nine!” she gasped, not letting him finish. “Of course!” She clasped a hand over her mouth and took a half-step back. “But why… why hide this knowledge behind illusory text and three other locations?”

“Something must be hidden there,” he said. “We  _have_  to go.”

“That sounds like a one-way trip. Neither of us is immortal, remember?” she asked.

“We can’t  _not_  go, Cerys. There is bound to be some powerful relic - if not, then…  _wealth_. Riches, treasure, jewels! Your family would never need to work again,” he said.

Cerys drew a sharp breath, and turned on the spot to stare back at the map. Averting her gaze, she searched the room for anything else to focus on. Her sights fell upon the wine glass and she reached for it, bringing it up to her lips. It looked so much like the chicken blood from earlier, for a moment she feared she might throw up. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to sip at its contents, giving her a brief reprieve.

She found no solace. She’d been so caught up in trying to figure out the meaning behind the passages, she hadn’t given any thought to what it would mean for  _her_ when she’d solved the mystery. She hadn’t given much thought to  _why_  they even existed,  _why_ someone had written riddles, and then wrapped them up in an illusory script to conceal them. She only felt she ought to have seen it coming.

Throwing her head back, she poured the wine into her mouth and nearly couldn’t swallow. Just about managing to hold it down, she gathered her belongings and headed straight for the door. Diero caught her wrist and pulled.

She pivoted on the spot and pulled back. “Mr Astorio, I don’t much approve of men grabbing my wrist -  _or pulling me_ ,” she snapped, taking the both of them by surprise. Without another word, he let go, allowing his arm to fall limply by his side.

Cerys stood in silence for no more than a few seconds, before backing out of the study, turning, and leaving.

Slamming the door behind her, Cerys leaned against it, staring into the fire. Her mother and father looked up with a start, and stared at her. At first, Ann rose to her feet and drew breath to scold her daughter, but upon seeing Cerys’ startled expression, she sat back down and turned back to the pot stewing above the fire.

“Where’ve  _you_  been?” she asked.

Cerys remained in place, trembling. She moved a hand idly to the wrist Diero had grabbed, and rubbed at it.

“Well?” Igor asked. “Your mother asked you a question.”

“Please don’t speak to me,” Cerys whispered, swallowing. Shaking her head nervously, she stormed through the house, and clambered up the stairs, heading into her room and slamming  _that_ door behind her as well.

Gritting her teeth together, she screwed her features up, and pulled her hair out of its bun, grabbing fistfuls of brown tangles as she paced back and forth.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,” she hissed beneath her breath, shaking her head violently. “ _Don’t._ Don’t you dare. Deep breaths, Cerys.” She swallowed. “You’re a coward. Such a stupid…  _coward_. Running away?  _Very_  mature. Stupid child.” Covering her face with her hands, she dropped onto her bed and let out a whine. “ _I don’t want to go._ ”

She lay in a most uncomfortable position on her bed, heart hammering so violently, she wondered how long it would take to chip away at her ribcage, burst through her chest and run as far away from her as it could manage.

It was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs that pulled her into a sitting position. She took two deliberate steps towards the door and pressed her ear against it, listening closely. Once she was sure her parents’ door had shut, she opened her own, ever so slowly, and crept down the stairs.

The dying embers of the fire cast a dim light about the room, and the shadows grasped at her ankles. Biting her lower lip she closed her eyes and took a deep, silent breath in through her nose. Tiptoeing to the fireplace, she reached for one of the pots, bringing it down low enough to look inside.

“If you’re looking for money…” Cerys flinched at the sound of her father’s voice. She span on the spot, and caught sight of him half-dozing in his armchair.

“I…”

“Your mother moved it so you wouldn’t steal it again,” he said, and paused to yawn. “What do you need it for?”

“I… I just need to get out,” she whispered.

“Out of where?”

“I don’t know… my head… this house…”

Sighing, Igor shifted in his chair, reaching for his back pocket. His plump fingers produced a silver coin, which he held between his finger for a moment, before flicking to her. She tried to catch it, but it slipped from her trembling grasp and span on the floor.

“Don’t come back too late - and bolt the door behind you when you do come home. Your mother had been paranoid since Miri’s death,” he said. Cerys kept her eyes on him as she lowered herself to the ground and struggled to pick the coin up off the floor.

Without stopping to thank him, she rose to her feet again, and made straight for the door.


	33. Worried Sick

Cerys slammed a mug of ale down upon the table, and clambered over the bench. Her pale hands clutched the handle of the mug. Her gaze remained fixed to the table. Paelias Meliamne, took a deep breath in, and he spoke, though his words were a distant blur of sounds Cerys could not quite make out, lost in a sea of discordant notes.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, keeping her voice down. The harp came back into sharp focus, stunning her for a brief moment, and she turned her gaze up towards Paelias.

“Are you alright, Jones?”

“No,” she said. “I feel like… my chest is exploding, and I feel like I’m going to die, and everything seems too big, and at the same time I feel like I’m suffocating in a cupboard.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I can’t keep still.”

“You’re having a panic attack.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No. I’m not. I’m literally dying, I can feel it.”

“That’s-”

“I  _know_  that’s not what literally means!”

“In the name of Torm, take a deep breath and calm the f… Just calm down,” Paelias snapped, bringing Cerys back to her senses once more. “I was  _going_  to say that’s what a panic attack  _feels_ like, if you’d have let me finish.”

“If I was having a panic attack, I would know.”

“Why?” Paelias asked. “Because you’re some sort of authority on what is and isn’t a panic attack? Some sort of  _expert_?”

She glowered, and pressed her lips together so hard they blanched. Her foot tapped incessantly upon the sticky floor. “Okay, so…  _what_? How do I make it stop?”

“How in the hells am I supposed to know  _that_? I don’t even know what caused it.”

“Diero and I solved the riddle.”

“That doesn’t sound like it’s worth panicking over, Jones.”

“He wants to go.”

Sighing in evident frustration at how little information she was surrendering, Paelias leaned forwards. “Okay. And?”

Cerys closed her eyes and brought the mug up to her lips, though she hesitated before taking a deep gulp of the drink. Placing the mug back on the table, she looked him in the eye. “In the book I have, the author rumoured that the entrance to the Vault of the Nine was located somewhere along Unicorn Run. I think we’ve found the rough location of the entrance,” she said. “Anyway, now Diero wants to go… I don’t know…  _investigate_.”

“What’s the Vault of the Nine?”

“Laeral Silverhand - Khelben’s lover - it was the base of operations for her old adventuring group. Until she went mad and he went to save her. People died there - it’s full of… I don’t know, but it’s probably full of death and traps and misery, and  _I don’t want to go_ ,” she said, struggling to keep her voice under control. “It sounds dangerous, and I can’t leave my parents when they’re being targeted by a killer, especially when I won’t be coming back, because I would probably die.”

Paelias cocked a brow and scoffed. He leaned back in his seat, watching her closely. “Alright,” he said. “You stay then. Diero can go.”

“I don’t want him to go alone. What if _he_  gets hurt?”

“I’ll go with him.”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“I can take care of your precious Mr Astorio, Jones. Don’t worry about it.”

“But-”

“But  _what_ , Jones? You don’t want to go, and I’ve reminded you that you don’t have to. You’re supposedly worried about Diero, and I’ve told you I will look after him, and let’s face it… one of us has experience of dangerous situations, and the other is the daughter of a second-rate pig farmer.”

“Prize-winning pig farmer, I’ll have you know,” she grunted.

“Does it matter?” Paelias asked. “You’re not being honest with yourself here, Jones. You might be scared of going, but that’s not why you’re sat there shaking in a pair of boots you can’t seem able to learn how to lace up.” Cerys recoiled from him, clutching the mug of ale to her chest. “You’re panicking because you  _do_  want to go - and that scares you, because that means you’re going to have to make some lasting decisions.”

“I-”

“Would you just…  _Stop_. Stop talking for  _one_  moment.  _Listen_  for once,” he said. “I know your type. Too afraid to try because you’re so scared you’ll fail. You know that this is your one chance. If you don’t go with Diero on this ridiculous excursion, his image of you will forever be shattered, and there is  _no_  excuse you could come up with that will change that.” He paused to let his words sink in. “You also know if you leave your parents at a time like this, they’ll look at you as the ungrateful daughter who turned her back on them to go off pretending she’s… I don’t know… Drizzt Do’Urden or something.”

Placing the mug back on the table once more, Cerys brought her arms in, wrapping them around herself.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Jones,” he said. She said nothing. “You can’t, can you? Because you know it’s true. You have to make a decision, and you’re bad at that. You’re the sort of coward who likes to play every angle, because you care more about what others think of you than how you feel about yourself. So tell me… what do you actually want to do?”

Bringing her hands up, she buried her face in them. “I don’t know,” she whined, her voice muffled by her palms.

“Stop fooling yourself, and tell the truth. Pretend no one would think any less of you regardless of your decision, what would you choose to do?”

“That’s stupid,” she groaned. “I can’t pretend that, because-”

“Because you’re a coward who is more interested in looking good than living a life she’s happy with.”

“Adventuring isn’t my thing - I’m not Mr Vargoba.”

“How very original. Never heard an excuse like that before. What’ll it be, Jones?”

“I…  _don’t know_.”

“We both know that’s not true. You’re not having a meltdown because you don’t want to go. If you don’t want to go, you wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea in your head,” he said. “Yet, here you are, Jones, tearing yourself apart, convincing yourself you shouldn’t go with a whole bunch of excuses neither of us is buying into.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Don’t expect me to believe you actually  _like_  simple things, Jones. You teamed up with a cleric of Mystra to solve a riddle written in two languages you don’t speak. You took this path. Where did you expect to end up?” he asked.

“I…”

“C’mon. Out with it.”

Letting her hands drop onto the table, her shoulders slumped. Ever so slowly, her gaze strafed upwards to meet Paelias’. “On an adventure,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. She sighed a heavy sigh, and let her head drop onto the table with a loud thud. “ _Shit_.”

Though he uttered no words, Cerys could feel Paelias’ gaze upon her. The two of them sat wordlessly, their silence interrupted only by the disturbingly jolly tune of the harp. The trembling had stopped however, and a stillness settled over her.

“C’mon, Jones,” he said finally, after allowing her time to take several deep breaths. “Finish your drink, and I’ll get you home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she whispered.

“Need somewhere to sleep?” he asked. Twisting her body as so to look at Paelias, Cerys nodded. “Finish your drink. I’ve got a spare room.”

With a deep sigh, she pulled herself up and held her drink in her hand once more, though her entire body felt heavy with the weight of responsibility. Visions flickered through her mind of all the different ways in which she might attempt to explain her foolish and rash decision to her parents who would simply never understand.

“Drink up, Jones,” Paelias said.

She heard him, just about, though his words seemed to hold no meaning. Regardless, she lifted the mug to her mouth and swallowed until she could see the bottom, and then, swinging her legs over the bench, rose to her feet. She dropped the mug onto the table.

Paelias pulled himself up to his own feet, and inclined his head for her to follow. She obliged, though she lagged a good few steps behind him, all the way through the town centre, and to the outskirts of town, where - hidden behind a thick copse - a proud house stood. The exposed wood was stained a dark brown, and the stucco was a brilliant white that must have taken a great deal of time to clean. Inset in the door was a leaded window from which a warm light spilled onto the cobblestone path.

“Wait,” Cerys said, coming to her senses at the sight of the house. She stopped along the path to eye the building up. “Where are we?”

“Mine,” Paelias said, and shrugged.

Cerys snorted. “You live  _here_? You will have to forgive me as there is no nice way to put this, but…  _how_? All you do is drink. How in the world could you afford something like this?”

“I told you,” Paelias said, brow furrowing. “I used to adventure. I went to-”

“To Dragonspear Castle, yes, but… that allowed you to afford this? The upkeep must be… and you sit around all day  _drinking_ ,” she said.

Clearly unimpressed, Paelias turned away from her and continued up the path until he was standing at the door. Turning a key in the lock, he pushed down on the black iron door handle and pushed the door inwards. Cerys stared at his silhouette, stunned by how little she knew of Paelias, and of how much he seemed to know of her. She had to wonder if acting as a go-between, between a fence and men such as her father was really so well-paid that Paelias might afford what could easily have been one of the nicest houses in the already idyllic Secomber.

“Jones,” he barked down the path, and Cerys flinched before trotting the rest of the way along the path, up the two stone steps at the foot of the door, and into the warmth.

The first thing she became aware of was the scent of stewing meat over the fire. The second thing she became aware of was the glossy polish of the wooden floors. Then, she caught sight of the walls. Unlike Shandri’s insipid illustrations of prancing piglets, upon Paelias’ walls - covering almost every inch - were paintings; paintings of women and men with fierce looks, blood splashed across their faces and fire in their eyes, they held swords aloft, and nocked arrows to their bows, taking aim at twisting shadows. In some paintings, there were no people, and instead, scenes of ruins lit by the twilight sky, and of dark stone cellars, and clearings in forests filled the gaps where humans might have been.

“I paint,” he said, so calmly, as if Cerys had asked him what he liked to do in his spare time, but as she gazed upon the walls, she could see clearly; this was no hobby. This was an obsession.

“You’re… I mean these are… they’re…”

“Rubbish,” he grunted, and brushed past her, heading through a wooden archway into the first room on the right, and out of sight.

Cerys choked on her breath. “Rubbish?” she gasped, trailing after him. “Paelias, they’re anything but rubbish.”

“No. They are. I’m painting things I haven’t seen in decades,” he said, throwing himself down into a large armchair by the fire. Cerys did not respond, and the crackle of the fire filled the void in conversation.

Circling around the room, she took the chair beside his, and held her hands out towards the flames, basking in their warmth. “That’s why you want to come, isn’t it?” she asked. “To the Vault of the Nine.”

Shrugging, Paelias sank into the chair. “We elves don’t even sleep as it is… If I don’t paint, I can’t even  _rest_. I’m bored. Bored of painting the same scenes over and over again.”

“But they’re beautiful.”

“They’re reminders of every failure I’ve ever made.”

Cerys did not know how to respond to that. Instead, she remained silent, and turned her attention to her lap.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing to the pot. “Help yourself.”

She didn’t  _feel_  hungry, but she couldn’t recall if she’d eaten since the day before. “Thank you,” she said, rising to her feet. There was a stack of wooden bowls on a table beside the fire, and a couple of spoons beside them. Holding a bowl in one hand, she ladled stew into it, before returning to her seat.

She was pleased to see more than one or two meagre lumps of meat, though the feeling caused her some guilt. She knew her mother tried, even if meals were not the highlight of the day in the Jones household.

“Take any room upstairs,” he said.

“What about you?”

“Elves don’t sleep.”

“I mean…  _at all_?”

“No matter how many times you ask, elves still won’t sleep,” he snapped, and turned from her. He stalked from the room, leaving her alone in a space that felt far too large, with a ceiling far too high, a meal far too filling in her lap, in a chair far too comfy, and as she kicked her shoes off, she dug her toes into a fur rug far too soft.


	34. A Brush with Death

The stretching hallways of Paelias’ house were well lit, but despite the brightness and warmth, Cerys could feel a resonating loneliness lingering about the place, clinging to every canvas that covered the walls floor to ceiling. It had taken her a moment to realise just why this was, but lost within the dark, murky hues of each and every brush stroke, not one of Paelias’ subjects, each of whom seemed in the midst of a great battle, was smiling.

Some brows were furrowed in concentration, some twisted in agony. As her gaze wandered over the wall, there was a deep twisting in her gut, as if she was seeing something she shouldn’t be seeing; something personal… something  _private_.

Averting her gaze, she put her head down and turned from the paintings, heading further down the hall, towards the only ajar door. Light clawed at the gap, trying to escape its confinements, and its warmth cast an elongated shadow behind her. However, she stopped just shy of the door when she caught sight of a familiar face hanging upon the wall at the very end of the hallway.

“Shandri?” she whispered, staring up into the wide eyes of a dark-skinned woman who bore a striking resemblance to her friend. However, unlike every other painting in the house, this battle had a resolution. She was falling, blood pouring from a wound in her stomach. Cerys felt a churning in her own. Taking one step closer, she lifted her hand and reached towards the woman’s face when a clattering in the room to her left snapped her out of her daze.

She turned to the door. Placing a hand upon the dark wood, she delicately pushed it open. Paelias sat, with his back to the door, surrounded by canvases in various states of completion.

“Come in,” he grunted. He raised a hand, a paintbrush gripped between his fingers and gestured for her to step in. “Push the door to behind you,” he added. Cerys stepped into the room, and leaned against the door to shut it.

“So, this is where you paint.”

“I paint everywhere,” he said with a wry laugh.

Taking a few more steps towards Paelias, Cerys peered over his shoulder at the canvases. They each shared a subject; the woman who shared haunting similarities to Shandri. The canvas propped up in front of him was no exception.

“Who was she?” she asked.

“You can probably guess,” he said.

“Well, Shandri is walking around alive and well, so… family?”

“Sister,” he grunted.

“She died...”

“Yep.”

Cerys drew breath, unsure if she should say anything or not. “Are…” She hesitated. “Are they  _all_  dead?”

Paelias said nothing. He sat upon his stool, his shoulders sagging. After a few minutes of silence, he nodded. “A lot of failures.”

“What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I asked her to come with me. I didn’t look after her; too busy looking for the perfect scene.”

Cerys balled her fists by her side before reaching out to place a hand upon his shoulder. “I’m... worried that I’m sending Diero to the same fate,” she half-croaked, and exhaled a shuddering breath. “I feel like I’ve indulged this fantasy of his, to solve a riddle and go on a one-way journey to uncover some lost artefact or something.”

Paelias nodded in understanding. “Diero is… powerful,” he said. Cerys’ stomach lurched. That she could recall, this was the first positive thing Paelias had said about her mentor. “Power isn’t enough, though. Teselle Dundragon was powerful. And she was smart, too. I wasn’t.”

“I  _do_  want to go. I can feel it, in my gut, this… this unsettled feeling. Like I’ve solved this much, it would be a waste to not see it to the end - to not go - but… I don’t want to be responsible if things go wrong.”

He nodded again. “Thing is, Jones… you’re already responsible. You found the location, right? You helped him solve this  _riddle_ , as you put it. Not going won’t make you any less responsible for what happens there, all it means is you won’t have any control  _should_  something happen.”

Cerys let the rising tension in her body slacken, her features relaxing. She stood in silence for a moment, gaze wandering the swirling brushstrokes of paintings that seemed more and more abstract the longer she stared at them. “You’re right.” She sighed.

“Look, I’m not normally one to suggest this kind of thing, but have you tried praying?” he asked. “I don’t know what help it would do. I’m not much one for religion. Obviously, Diero is. I’m not sure where you fall along that spectrum, but some people find it helps.”

“I never used to,” she said. “Recently, I’ve tried - a mere couple of times. I suppose it’s worth a try.”

“Nothing to lose, right?”

She grunted noncommittally, and gave his shoulder one final squeeze, before removing her hand and letting it fall to her side.

“I just want to paint something else,” he said. “I’ve been painting Teselle for ten years now. Enough is enough.”

Cerys nodded. “That seems fair,” she said. “Though, for what it’s worth… I don’t think Shandri holds it against you. Not that much, anyway.”

With a snort, Paelias shrugged. “That kind of only makes it that much worse.”

She considered his words for a moment. She supposed it was easier to be indignant than to show remorse, regardless of one’s feelings. Swallowing, she shook her head. “I suppose it does,” she said. “Why remind yourself of it? Why torture yourself with all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the canvases spread across the room. Paelias scoffed.

“If I didn’t paint them, they’d still be up here,” he said, tapping his temple with the end of his paintbrush. “Her story deserves to be told. All their stories do. You can go and do something truly heroic - something amazing… but no one will remember you if you’re not one of the ones to leave alive… even if the only reason they got to leave is because of your sacrifice. People ought to know the cost of the stories they tell over pints of ale in the taverns and town halls across Faerun.”

“Don’t forget yours, Paelias.”

He chuckled. “That’s Mr Meliamne to you, Jones,” he said glancing over his shoulder at her with a weak grin.

Cerys forced a smile back. “And that’s Cerys to you, Meliamne,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, just… pick a room. They’re all empty.”

She parted her lips to ask why that was, when the sight of Teselle’s brown eyes, wide with terror, caused her to halt. She had to wonder if this house was never supposed to have been so empty. She had to wonder if - at one point - it had been filled with any number of the faces that lined the walls, remembered only by their final moments.

“You should name your paintings,” she said. “So that people can know who they should thank.”

“What is a name if not pointless baggage. Who they are isn’t so important as what they did. I don’t remember half their names anyway,” he grunted. “It’s their faces I can’t forget.” She had nothing in response to that. She stood in silence for a long moment, until Paelias put his brush to the canvas once more.

“Night, Paelias.”

“Night, Jones.”

Backing out of the room, Cerys shut the door behind her, plunging the corridor into a darkness more fitting of the gloom upon the canvases surrounding her. She rested her hand upon the wall, turning her head to look - once more - at Teselle. She hadn’t ever thought to ask Shandri about her personal life, though she’d spoken about her own to the woman. She knew nothing about her.

“Night, Teselle,” she half-whispered and made her way down to the far end of the corridor, heading into the room closest to the stairs - and farthest from Paelias’ painting room.

As she had expected, the walls were covered - once more - in paintings, but to her surprise, only one contained a person. She was a dwarven woman, with dark blonde hair, and an axe in each hand, and though Cerys knew it was silly to feel such a way, she could not help but to feel slightly uncomfortable at the thought of sharing a room with a dead woman.

The room itself was bigger than her own, though not by much. The furniture, on the other hand, was far nicer than anything her family owned, and it looked as though it had never been used. Despite this, it was clean, with barely any dust. Visions came to her mind; visions of Paelias stalking his lonely house through restless nights, scrubbing obsessively as if he might scrub away his guilt along with the dust and dirt.

She threw herself down onto the bed, and cringed at the involuntary grunt of relief that escaped her as she sank into the soft mattress. She stared up at the ceiling; it was painted a dark colour, though she could not tell what shade. She supposed it didn’t matter, but it bothered her, not knowing. It bothered her not knowing the names of each and every person in Paelias Meliamne’s house. It bothered her not knowing how each of them had perished. Not knowing bothered her. And when she thought of how much those things bothered her, her mind wandered to Mystra, and the eternal search for knowledge.

Closing her eyes to cover out the darkness above with the darkness of the inside of her own eyelids, she focused on her thoughts of the goddess. She wasn’t sure how Diero had managed to become a cleric of all things, when she didn’t even know how to start a simple prayer.

“So… if you’re out there… listening… Gods, what am I saying? Look… I just need… I don’t know what I need. I need to know what I need.” She sighed. “None of this makes any sense, I know. I’m questioning a lot of things, and I keep feeling this pull in one direction… So I suppose I’m going to follow it. I don’t  _need_  your help, I guess maybe I’m… maybe I shouldn’t even ask… but I’d really like it, because I really have no idea what I’m doing.”

Rolling onto her side, she grimaced, painfully aware a god should be addressed with far more formality than that. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they didn’t appreciate being sucked up to. Perhaps informality was preferred. She rolled her eyes. She was kidding herself.

“Okay, let’s try that again. Mystra, I want to feel it again. I’m directionless, but the riddle in the book has been like a path before me. I’m  _going_  to follow it… I… I  _know_  it’s the right thing to do, but that doesn’t make it an  _easy_ thing. I just want this more than anything - more than anything I’ve ever wanted,” she said, sighing. Rolling onto her other side, she closed her eyes.

Then, it was morning, and Cerys wasn’t entirely sure what had happened because she did not recall falling asleep, and she was sure she hadn’t been  _that_  tired, but what was more confusing was how there was a flame of radiant light coalescing before her very eyes; a radiant light she was pretty sure she could weaponise. It dissipated within seconds.

“Paelias,” she called, her pitch far higher than she was comfortable with. Panicked footsteps filled the silence that followed, until the door flung open to reveal the high elf desperately attempting to conceal his obvious concern.

“What?” he asked.

“Is this normal?” Cerys asked, and whispered something unintelligible whilst waving her hand. The flame appeared in the air once more, this time, a little too close to Paelias, who had to take a step back to avoid getting burned.

“Well, I mean… N- _yeah_ ,” he said after a long moment of deliberation. “I’m pretty sure that’s normal.”


	35. Going Heart to Heart

 Cerys rubbed her knuckles. They were sore from knocking. Not just knocking, but knocking with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Shandri opened the door, looking more startled than Cerys had anticipated, but she didn’t give it much thought, as she quickly stepped back and raised one finger to silence the woman before she had a chance to ask any questions.

Gesturing to one of Shandri’s shrubberies, the flame of radiant energy coalesced once more, washing rather harmlessly over the bush. Cerys’ eyes narrowed slightly. Biting her lip, she turned her gaze to Shandri. “Well… I was - quite honestly - expecting it to do a bit more than  _that_ … but, I mean… I’m not going crazy. That’s  _magic_.”

Still stunned and evidently confused, Shandri managed nothing more than a shallow nod. Cerys nodded back, and gestured to the unharmed bush.

“So, you’ve taken your first step towards clericism,” she said. “I mean… I’m going to be honest, I’m… I’m… this is a bit confusing.”

Cerys nodded again. “Absolutely - and we need to talk about other things.”

“Oh, there’s more, is there?” Shandri asked. “Cerys… I don’t mean to pry, but have you spoken to Diero?”

Freezing in place, Cerys’ stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She folded her arms and turned to face her friend. “ _No_. Why?”

“He was looking for you last night,” she said. “He seemed rather concerned. I told him I hadn’t seen you, of course… but I do need to ask you what you were doing around Paelias Meliamne’s house,” she added.

“Do you spy on me, Shandri?” Cerys asked, frowning as she recalled the last time Shandri had conveniently found her wandering off.

“Do you think we should, perhaps, have this conversation inside?” Shandri smiled rather sheepishly and stepped aside.

That wasn’t the answer Cerys had hoped for. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d even call it an  _answer_. Regardless, she stepped inside and waited for Shandri to shut the door behind her, before following the woman into the sitting room she knew she would never grow accustomed to. Sitting down, she was taken by surprise as she sank. She’d forgotten how uncomfortably soft the seats were. She smiled all the same.

“Tea?”

“I’d rather not,” Cerys said.

Shandri shrugged, and sat down across from Cerys. “I don’t spy on  _you_ ,” she said before Cerys could say anything, herself. “I have a seeing stone that allows me to watch the town centre, and I happened to see you with Paelias,” she said.

“A seeing…? It doesn’t matter. Why are you even watching the town?”

“In case a smart young woman - such as yourself - get drawn in by glib elves - Such as Paelias Meliamne. I had hoped you’d heed my words about him.”

“Lecherous, you called him,” Cerys said, not appreciating Shandri’s tone. “You forgot to mention Ciara wasn’t the only sister of yours he used to work with,” she added, before grimacing. That hadn’t exactly been how she planned to have this conversation.

Shandri’s gaze fell to her lap. “He can paint her all he wants, it’s not going to bring her back,” she said with a sigh. “I forgave him. Teselle was an adult who made her own choices, the blame doesn’t solely lie with Paelias, despite what Ciara might believe. However… he won’t  _let_ it lie. I don’t want to be constantly reminded of my sister’s passing. His guilt has manifested in… wholly unpleasant ways, Cerys.”

“He’s a drunk. So are half the men in Secomber. That’s just how it is.”

“For a start off, that doesn’t mean I have to like it - or that it’s okay - but that’s not the point. He’s a drunk who has tried to climb into bed with both Ciara  _and_  myself,” Shandri said, and Cerys blinked in surprise, having not expected Shandri to say anything like  _that_. “He was in love with Teselle. He misses her. I don’t care how much I look like her, or how much Ciara shares her  _fierceness_  or...  _however he puts it_ … It’s unwelcome. I asked him to stop. Ciara  _arrested_  him.” Shaking her head, she leaned back in her chair. “I don’t much like associating with him.”

Cerys felt more than a little awkward. Paelias had forgotten to mention any of that. “Well, he certainly didn’t… try  _anything_  like that with me, Shandri.”

“Why were you with him, Cerys?”

“I was… having a panic attack, I guess.”

“Oh, darling! You could have come  _here_  if you needed help,” Shandri said, so maternally, Cerys couldn’t help but laugh.

“I needed someone to talk some sense into me, not wrap me up in a blanket and stick a cup of tea in my hand,” she said. “We drank for a bit, spoke a bit about paintings and your… your sister, and then I went to bed and prayed - had some really strange dreams, and woke up feeling like my mind had expanded,” she said. “Nothing untoward.”

“Well I’m glad to hear it,” Shandri said, seemingly past her desire to scold Cerys. “Now… what happened between you and Diero?”

Cerys groaned. She didn’t want to talk about it. Shook her head, but Shandri raised one eyebrow, and Cerys shrank back in the seat. “We…” she started, with a great deal of reluctance. “We solved a mystery… He wants to go on an adventure to uncover more mysteries and I… I  _think_  I want to go? I just… I feel nervous and sick whenever I’m around him.”

Shandri’s eyes lit up. “Nervous and sick?” she asked, feigning surprise, though it was clear to Cerys Shandri already had an idea of her own.

“Look, I know it sounds awful, but… he… he grabbed me,” she said. “Not like… in a  _bad_  way. He just… He put his arms around me from behind and then he said he wanted to kiss me. So I tried to leave, and that’s when he grabbed my wrist. I just… I panicked. So I left.”

Shandri’s eyes widened as Cerys spoke. She nodded eagerly in anticipation, until Cerys finished, and then she screwed her features up. “ _What_?” she asked in disbelief. “You…  _left_? But what about the  _kiss_?”

“Oh,  _gods no_. We didn’t  _kiss_.”

“But you said he said he wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“Cerys.”

“ _What_?”

“He obviously cares about you quite a lot,” Shandri said. Cerys looked uncertain for a moment before hesitantly nodding. “And I wasn’t born yesterday, I know love when I see it." Cerys’ eyes widened in horror, silently begging Shandri to not give voice to a feeling she’d been trying to ignore for longer than she was comfortable admitting. This seemed to satisfy Shandri, who settled for a pointed stare.

“I don’t  _want_  to, though. I don’t want to feel…  _that_.”

“What?” Shandri asked with a chuckle. “Whyever not? He’s a good man.”

“He’s my mentor - my boss - he’s in charge of me. And I… I… Well, I’m no expert on interpersonal relationships between colleagues, but I’ve heard that it’s an unhealthy power dynamic to base a relationship upon.”

“Well I  _am_  an expert and I say that’s nonsense.”

“It’s not! I did hear that.”

“I don’t doubt you did  _hear_  that, and maybe it isn’t the  _best_ way to start out, but I think he sees you as an equal Cerys. Regardless, if there are feelings there, there are feelings there! That’s not important, however, because that’s not why you’re holding back now. What are you really worried about?”

Cerys stared at her hands in her own lap for a long few minutes. “I don’t know.”

Shandri let out a long sigh. “Come on, Cerys. You’re a smart girl.”

“Woman.”

“All the more reason to stop acting like a child and admit to yourself you’re worried that he won’t like you when he gets to know you,” she said. Cerys swallowed and lifted her gaze to meet the comfort of Shandri’s dark eyes. “Give him some more credit, Cerys. He’s one of the most intelligent men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. The Rods did not give him his job because he’s an idiot. What makes you think he’s going to dislike you?”

“Because that’s the  _truth_ ,” Cerys blurted, surprising herself. “He’s got it into his head that I’m smart and determined, and I’m not. I don’t even know how to cook  _one_  meal. Honestly? For all the lip I give my mother, I couldn’t do it any better,” she bit out. “I struggle to slice bread - I forget to put my shoes on basically all the time. Does a smart person forget to put their own shoes on?”

“Personally, I’m not fond of shoes, to begin with, and I consider myself to be a smart woman.”

“You’re missing the point - rather deliberately, I might add.”

Shandri nodded. “Yes. Probably. But Cerys, I could sit here for the next month, reassuring you on every single thing you bring up. I could come up with a hundred and one examples to prove your hundred and one insecurities to be baseless - and we  _both_  know you would call each one an exception to the rule, because you don’t want to hear it,” she said. Cerys folded her arms. “If you hear it, you have to listen. If you listen, you have to do something about it. That’s what you’re scared of. You’re not scared of him realising some hidden truth, you’re worried about having to live up to the high expectations of a man who knows you can do great things.”

“ _No_ ,” Cerys grunted. “That’s  _not_ -”

“I have a daughter, Cerys. She’s fourteen. She’s… so much like you. If you want to be a woman, start acting like one. Stop running away from situations that make you feel uncomfortable, and deal with that discomfort. If you’re not willing to get  _over_  that discomfort, then you need to challenge the situation itself,” Shandri said with such little room for argument, Cerys felt like a child again.

The breath she’d drawn to disagree lingered in her lungs for a moment before she sighed it out. Closing her mouth and swallowed. “You just don’t get it.”

Eyes widening in frustration, Shandri nodded. “That must be it,” she said, but didn’t press the issue. “So… Diero wants to go on an adventure? You said you want to go with him? Perhaps you can deal with your… emotions while you’re away,” she said. Cerys’ cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of pink. “I really do hope you figure yourself out, Cerys. He’d be good for you.”

“So you’ve made clear,” Cerys sighed. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Well… Diero and I have had our fun - I know he’s a… a gentleman, should we say?”

Shaking her head as if that might clarify things, Cerys wet her lips. “I’m sorry. Fun? I think I’m missing something here,” she said, drawing a staggering breath, though she was rather certain she hadn’t missed anything.

“Oh, that was a long time ago, now. It was nothing serious; I was going through my divorce, so…” Shandri said. Shandri, whose smile had been comforting and inviting, now nauseating. “Anyway, where are the two of you off to?” she asked.

Cerys stared at her, using every once of her strength to stop her lip from wobbling. “Not two of us,” she said. She could hear own voice trembling, and internally begged herself to not cry. Not here. Not in front of Shandri. “Paelias is coming.”

“Oh gods, I wouldn’t take him  _anywhere_. At least you’ll have Diero there for decent conversation. Not that the two of them have ever gotten along.”

Cerys supposed that had something to do with Paelias wanting Shandri, and Diero having her. She nodded. “I wanted to ask Ciara to come. I… I guess she won’t want to, given her stalemate with Paelias,” she said.

Shandri took in a deep breath, bringing the conversation to a momentary reprieve. “Cerys,” she said, finally. Cerys looked up. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Nothing serious happened between Diero and myself. You know that, right?”

Breath caught in her throat, Cerys shook her head. “No, that’s not it. I’m just worried about everything. Unicorn Run seems so far away,” she said, though her stomach turned over - unhappy about having lied to a woman who had been nothing but earnest and kind to her.

“Unicorn Run?” Shandri asked, leaning forwards and catching Cerys by surprise. “As in the High Forest?” she asked. Cerys, rather startled, managed nothing more than solitary nod. “By the gods - and you’re taking Paelias with you? You’ll be dead before nightfall.”

“Oh… is the High Forest dangerous?”

“ _Is the high forest dangerous_?  _Yes_. It is. The High Forest is easily as dangerous as the Mere of Dead Men.”

“The what of  _what_  what?”

“Never mind that!” Throwing herself back into her seat, Shandri shook her head. “Well, you’re right about one thing. Ciara would have been an asset to you,” she said with a sigh. “She’s not going to come with Paelias.”

“I’m not getting rid of him,” Cerys said. “Part of the deal for him translating my texts was that he could come when we knew what we were doing, and I don’t plan to go back on that.”

Shandi’s jaw tensed. She sat in silence, as if hoping Cerys might change her mind. When it was clear this was something Cerys would not compromise on, she sighed again. “Speak with Falkrun Fireforge,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m not questioning your knowledge, but… can I ask  _why_?” Cerys asked. “Is curry going to help somehow?”

Shandri chuckled. “She’s an accomplished spellcaster - specialising in setting things on fire. If Ciara won’t go, then… Falkrun Fireforge is probably a better bet anyway,” she said. “But if anyone asks you - I didn’t tell you to ask her.”

Ignoring how suspicious Shandri’s words made her seem, Cerys could not fathom why Falkrun Firefore would be working in a shop, making curries but no money, if she was supposedly an  _accomplished spellcaster_. Shandri seemed aware of her confusion, but did nothing to dispel it.

“Can I even leave my parents at a time like this?” Cerys asked. “I… We… Another of our pigs died. I’m pretty sure we’re being targetted now, Shandri. They’ll never forgive me.”

Shandri fell silent, rage flashing in her eyes for the briefest of moments, before her features resumed their usual calm sincerity. “Whoever is doing this, Cerys… You need to catch them.”

“So then, I shouldn’t go.”

“You won’t get far without the skills Diero has honed, and the allies he’s made amongst the bureaucrats here in Secomber,” she said. “Things take time - he’s the one who can pull strings. If he’s going to Unicorn Run, then… you might as well go with him. But trust me, when we find out who is targetting your family… they’ll rue the day they thought they could harm the precious little piggies of Secomber.”

Cerys choked, and desperately gasped for breath, only, the moment the air was in her lungs, she burst out laughing. Bringing her hands up to her face, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“What?” Shandri asked.

“Why, that was  _almost_  intimidating, Shandri. Almost.”

“Are you  _laughing_ at me, Cerys Jones?”

“I’m sorry,” Cerys squeaked.

Groaning, Shandri rolled her eyes. “Go on, then. Get out and go find Diero,” she said, pausing before adding, “and then talk to Falkrun. You need her more than you know.” Cerys rose to her feet, still laughing as she stumbled towards the door to the hallway. “And stop laughing!” Shandri called after her.


	36. Into the Frying Pan

Outside was a vacuum. Laughter had been a momentary lapse in an ever-twisting churn deep in her gut. Her ears rang, a rumbling steadily growing louder until everything was shaking. Only, she was the only thing shaking; her trembling hands would not cease their shivering. She swallowed the bile back down.

She thought she was heading towards Falkrun Fireforge’s kitchen, but instead, she found herself standing outside her own front door. Placing her hand upon the wood, she took a deep breath, and turned to leave when it opened.

“Oh  _there_  you are-” her mother began, ready to launch into another tirade, though she stopped herself, her evident frustration losing its momentum. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Cerys blinked a few times, before shaking her head. “I… need my mother.”

“Cerys?”

She shook her head. Ann stepped aside, allowing Cerys into their home. The moment she was inside, Ann slammed the door shut and pulled the bolt across as pointedly as was possible to lock a door. Cerys sighed, cursing internally. She hadn’t come home, so she hadn’t bolted the door as her father had asked of her.

“Just promise me you won’t get mad,” she said.

Ann drew breath, presumably to tell her daughter that this was a poor way of starting any conversation, but she bit her tongue and gestured for Cerys to speak. Her lack of affirmation did not go unnoticed by Cerys, who said nothing, suddenly lost for words.

“Well?” Ann asked, stepping around her daughter to take her usual seat at the table. Cerys nodded, not entirely sure she hadn’t made the wrong decision in coming here, not that she’d consciously made  _any_  decision.

Still stood in the centre of the room, she watched her mother closely. She already knew what her mother would say. Her mother would say that she was fooling herself, that an educated man such as Diero had more sense than to get involved with a  _child_ , that he had his pick of the town, that she was being naive if she thought he’d ever feel anything for a girl with no prospects. She’d roll her eyes, and scoff, and say it in that tone of voice she always used, the one that sounded kind, like she was simply looking out for her only daughter, but that was laden with scorn and ridicule.

“Cerys?” Ann asked again. Cerys bit her lip, her eyes stinging. Her nostrils flared and she took a deep breath in, before finally tearing her gaze away from her mother. She knew exactly what her mother would say, and it didn’t hurt because her mother wanted it to hurt. It hurt because she knew it was all true.

It was easy for Shandri to throw around all the words in the world, but Shandri was beautiful, and successful, and interesting, and fun, and likeable, and personable, and had responsibilities. Shandri was  _desirable_. Shandri was desirable to  _Diero_. And if that’s what Diero was attracted to - if Shandri was his  _type_ , Cerys knew that she certainly would never be. She swallowed again.

“Sunshine, what’s wrong?”

Cerys shook her head. “ _I_  am,” she croaked.

“Who said that? Look if Mr Vargoba has said anything-”

She shook her head again. “I’m such an idiot,” she said quietly, in stunned disbelief that she’d ever thought she deserved more. “I should have gone with him. I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, he’s not that great. We can do better, and besides, there would have been more competition in the city, anyway.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Cerys whispered, taking a step backwards to the door. “I can still fix this.”

“Cerys, where are you going?”

“To the Vault of the Nine in Unicorn Run.”

“Why? Wait… what’s-?”  
“I can be an adventurer. I  _can_. I’m going to prove it.”

Turning, she strode back towards the door, not stopping to even glance at her mother as the woman called after her. Her fingers fumbled with the bolt, and panic set in for a brief moment as she struggled with the lock. She sighed in relief as the bolt eventually slid to the left

She slammed the door closed behind her, eyes fixated on the path beneath her. She waited in place, secretly hoping her mother would chase after her, but if Ann called to her again, her voice was lost in the silence of the vacuum. Her stomach twisted.

Her brow furrowed. Pressing her lips together, she took in another deep breath, and made straight for the Fireforge.

A jar of strange curved and squashed tomatoes in orange oil held open the door, which was painted a particularly obnoxious shade of red. Inside, Cerys could see a grand total of zero customers occupying the mismatched tables and chairs. She stepped up the single stone step and through the threshold into  _The Fireforge_.

However sore her eyes had been at home was nothing compared to the assault upon her eyeballs as she stepped into the room. She choked and spluttered with each breath, and wondered how it was possible for anyone to work in such a hostile environment.

Her eyes scanned the room for any sign of Falkrun, but the restaurant seemed to be empty. Sighing, she shook her head and screwed her features up.

“Oh, gods,” she groaned, gulping. Two amber eyes popped up from beneath one of the painfully orange counters. Cerys flinched.

“Oh! A Jones!” Falkrun chirped. Cerys peered through watering eyes at the dwarf, who seemed to be in no pain at all.

“Ms Fireforge?” Cerys asked.

“Miss Jones! How may I help you?” Falkrun asked. “Oh! How about some milk? Would you like some milk?”

“ _Milk_?” Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “Why would I…?  _No_. I  _don’t_ want  _milk_ ,” she said, staring incredulously at the woman before her, who simply shrugged. “I came here to-”

“Oh! Right! Shandri did say she’d get someone to help me out,” Falkrun said, not allowing Cerys to finish. “Give me just a moment, then!”

Cerys continued to stare in disbelief, utterly confused. Falkrun swivelled on the spot, and reached for a pot bubbling over the fire - a fire that stretched for an entire wall. She stirred the contents with a wooden spoon, before bringing said spoon out to smell it.

“What  _is_  that?” Cerys asked.

“Oh, this? This is my latest dish!” Falkrun paused to beam over her shoulder at Cerys. “I call it Dragonspear Casserole!” Cerys’ eyes narrowed with interest. “It’s made with ghost peppers!” she added, and looked expectant.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ghost peppers? Get it?” she asked. Cerys attempted a smile, but only managed to bear her teeth ever so slightly. “Too on the nose? Well, wait til your nose gets a whiff of  _this_!”

“Oh my god,” Cerys muttered under her breath. She’d made a terrible mistake - a terrible,  _terrible_ mistake.

“Anyway.” Falkrun detached a ladle from a hook above the fire and spooned a ladleful of casserole into a wooden bowl, before half-skipping to the other end of the room, the casserole sloshing about in the bowl, threatening to spill all over the floor. Cerys put her hand out and drew breath to protest, but with surprising grace, Falkrun grabbed a failed loaf of bread and twirled on the spot, before rushing back to the counter. “Enjoy!”

“Enjoy?” Cerys asked.

“Yes! The casserole!”

“ _Oh_.” Cerys stared down at the bowl before her. “This?” she asked, though she knew the answer. Grimacing, she took the ruined loaf from Falkrun. It hung in her grasp, rather limply. She certainly wouldn’t have considered herself an expert on bread, but she was pretty sure bread was not supposed to be flat. “Ghost peppers…” she mumbled. She didn’t particularly like peppers, but still, she needed to get Falkrun on board. Ghosts were supposed to be somewhat invisible, so a ghost  _pepper_  couldn’t be  _too_ bad. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged in defeat and looked around for a spoon. “Spoon?”

“Oh, no, you dip the bread into the casserole and eat it like that,” Falkrun explained, smile not faltering.

Cerys pressed her lips together and nodded in uncertainty. Dipping the bread into the casserole, she scooped up a good portion of the oddly vibrant meal onto the loaf. Falkrun blinked in surprise, but said nothing. Cerys felt panic set in. She wasn’t sure why Falkrun blinking made her so nervous, but it was too late to back out. Opening her mouth, she bit into the bread.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Falkrun looked at Cerys expectantly once more. Cerys swallowed - and that’s when it happened. She dropped the loaf and covered her mouth with her hands, stumbling backwards, and let out a guttural scream, though her mouth was firmly closed.

“Is that a good sign?” Falkrun asked, eyes lighting up.

Cerys’ eyes widened. She slapped the wall repeatedly with her palm, eyes streaming. She whimpered and squatted, balling her fists.

“I’m taking that as a good sign!”

Shaking her head violently, Cerys rose to her feet again, and paced back and forth. Taking a deep breath, she finally parted her lips. “Oh,  _gods_! What  _is_  that? Why?  _Why_?” she demanded, turning to Falkrun who was nothing but a blurred mess beyond the watering eyes.

Falkrun blinked again. “Dragonspear Casserole,” she said, simply.

“What is  _in_  it?”

“Ghost peppers - I told you,” she said. “I think I’m going to have to have a word with Shandri about who she sends next time.”

Cerys shook her head. “I didn’t come here to  _die_.”

“Look, you need milk,” Falkrun said.

“I’m not drinking  _anything_  you give me!”

“It’ll help!”

“ _No_.”

Falkrun threw her hands into the air in surrender. “Whatever you say, Miss Jones. So I’m taking it you don’t think this should go onto my menu?”

Cerys’ eyes widened further. “Why would you put this on a  _menu_?” she half-shrieked, before clearing her throat in a vain attempt to regain some composure.

Falkrun opened her mouth and drew breath, considering her next words carefully. “Well… it’s just that… Shandri said I should branch out from curries, so I made this casserole.”

“Is casserole meant to burn you from the inside?” Cerys asked, leaning against the wall, head in her hand. “Everything hurts. My throat hurts, my mouth hurts, my tongue is  _literally on fire_.”

“Well, I mean… not  _lit_ -”

“ _I don’t care what literally means!_ ” she growled. “Even my eyes-”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” Falkrun squeaked as Cerys brought her fingers up to rub her eyes. She was too slow.

Cerys’ body relaxed for a moment as she took a deep, shuddering breath. “ _Oh_ …” she whined. “ _Oh_ …”

Falkrun brought her fist up to her mouth, her teeth sinking into her knuckles. Her other arm wrapped itself around her waist as she watched the horror unfold.

Cerys had no idea how much time had passed by the time the pain had subsided. Well,  _mostly_  subsided. Falkrun had closed the shop, and had taken her into the back, before leaving her in a dark room with a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread. Actual bread. Bread that hadn’t been sat on.

Of course, there was none left, for the moment Falkrun had left the room, Cerys had piled the bread into her mouth and washed it down with the entire bottle of milk. She was loathe to admit it, but it had helped. A little. Just a little.

The door opened without knocking, and Falkrun strode back in, hands on her hips. Cerys turned her gaze upwards, trying to keep her expression neutral and her disdain concealed.

“You feeling better then?” Falkrun asked, and summoned a small ball of fire in her hand, casting the room in a warm light. Without so much as glancing at it, she hurled the fire at the wall. Cerys followed it with her eyes. The flames splashed across the wall, and a rogue flame caught a nearby torch which ignited, illuminating the entire room. It was then Cerys noticed just how scorched the walls were. Not just the walls, the entire room was covered in singes and soot. It did little to detract from the sorry state of furniture, somehow more mismatched than her own home, and in a worse state of disrepair, too. Everything was in clashing shades of pink, red, orange, and yellow. Cerys wondered how rude it would be to ask Falkrun to put the torch out.

“I’m…” she mumbled, turning her attention back to Falkrun. “I’m fine,” she said, studying the woman. Now that she wasn’t wishing for a swift death whilst hopping about a room, Cerys could see Falkrun was taller than most dwarves she’d met. She had wide eyes, and olive skin. Her dark brown hair was messy, and Cerys had to muse if this is what she’d have looked like had she been born to dwarven parents. Around Falkrun’s neck hung a dark pendant with veins of luminous orange running through the stone, and as the dwarf reached up to idly fiddle with it, Cerys noticed an unusual texture to Falkrun’s forearms. At first, she was not sure what it was, but as her eyes narrowed, she realised they were scars.

“So, given your miserably extreme reaction to pepper, I’m beginning to suspect you didn’t come here to try my casserole,” Falkrun said. Cerys attempted a sheepish smile, but Falkrun didn’t look particularly bothered by Cerys’ evident distaste for her cooking.

“Not quite,” she admitted.

Falkrun’s nose crinkled as she smiled. She shrugged, and sat down upon a threadbare cushion, beside Cerys. Her gaze fell to the bare plate and empty bottle, and she smirked ever so slightly. “You know, you should eat more chilli, or you’ll never get used to it,” she said.

“Something to bear in mind,” Cerys said, pointedly not mentioning that she’d rather die than so much as  _look_  at anything red ever again.

“So how can this dwarf help you?”

Cerys glanced at the torch again, realising why Shandri had sent her. “I see you’re good with magic,” she said, trying to silence the little voice in the back of her mind comparing her feeble attempt to cast the flame over Shandri’s bush to the sizeable flame Falkrun had summoned.

“I know a thing or two. Why?” Falkrun asked. “Oh! Do you want to learn magic? You wanted me to teach you?” Cerys’ eyes widened, as Falkrun launched into an incomprehensible rant about something she called ‘arcane theory’. It was only when she was a good minute and a half into her lecture when she finally noticed Cerys’ vacant expression. Trailing off into silence, the two sat in a somewhat uncomfortable stalemate for a moment, before Falkrun finally asked, “so what  _can_  I help you with?”

“I’m going to Unicorn Run. Well… Diero Astorio and I are going to Unicorn Run, and Paelias Meliamne is coming with us, but Shandri Kulenov recommended I ask for your help, too.”

Falkrun Fireforge’s eyes widened in surprise. Blinking a few times, she took a deep breath, before sighing it out. She nodded in understanding, her eyes more serious than before. “An adventure, huh?” she asked, and drew her fingers across the scars running up her arm. She scoffed. “Well, I’d love to come, but… I can’t.”

“Is there something the matter?” Cerys asked.

Falkrun shrugged. “How many people did you see out there in my shop?” she asked. Cerys drew breath, but Falkrun beat her to it. “None. It’s empty. I have to work four times as hard as anyone else in this town to sell half the goods they sell on a  _bad_  day.” She rose to her feet, and stretched her arms. “So I would  _love_  to come. I miss being out in the wilderness, camping under stars, eating god-awful provisions, but… I can’t afford to take that kind of time out of work, or I won’t have a job - or a house - when I get home.”

“Do people really dislike casserole and curry that much?”

Falkrun laughed, and shook her head. “No. They dislike  _me_.”

Cerys inhaled sharply. “What? I… What would make you think that?” she asked. She had to admit, she wasn’t enamoured with the woman who had nearly killed her with  _ghost peppers_ , but she didn’t like most things - or people. Most other people were reasonable enough. “You seem fine.”

“ _Fine_?” Falkrun asked, cocking an eyebrow. Cerys cringed. That hadn’t been what she’d meant. “Besides, I’m only cooking curry because I’ve been knocked out of the competition for pies. I used to be a baker - pies, cakes, cookies, all things sweet. But I just can’t compete with the Frostbeards. They have me beat,” she said. Turning from Cerys, she picked up the empty bottle and plate, doing her best to avoid eye contact. “And let me tell you, while I think those two idiots could sell just about anything - including overpriced curry - they’re not that good at baking. I don’t know what they did to make Arveen give them the Pig Agility cake gig, but it knocked me out of the game, and forget being able to get my foot in the door, I can’t even get my  _toe_  in,” she said.

Cerys sighed. “And there’s nothing I could say to make you change your mind?” she asked.

“It’s not about saying things, Miss Jones - and you don’t have to change my mind. I’m itching to get out of town for a while... I just can’t afford it. I’m really sorry,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Shaking her head, Cerys rose to her feet. “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

Falkrun rolled her eyes, smiling. “Don’t be daft! And hey, if my situation ever changes in the future, I’ll come find you. Maybe we can go on an adventure some other time. Oh! You know what you  _should_  do? You should go to Waterdeep. There’s always fun to be found in Waterdeep.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Cerys said. She smiled before excusing herself from the room, and took quick strides towards the exit, not keen to linger in the restaurant that burned her eyes.


	37. Icing on the Cake

The Frostbeards were cordial as always when Rurik opened the door, and before Cerys could so much as tell him why she was there, he invited her in.

“You’ll have to bear with us, though. We’re just in the middle of preparing lunch,” Rurik said, as he led her through the bright and airy hall. The walls were painted a comforting shade of magnolia, both more subtle and more refreshing than Falkrun’s disagreeable taste in yellow.

As she strode in tow, following Rurik as he led her through to the kitchen, past numerous framed documents hanging upon the walls. From what she could gather, they were certificates of some sort. She felt it safe to assume they were bakery-related.

The hall gave way to a generous kitchen, filled with the cloying scent of freshly baked cakes with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Thoradin stood behind the counter, cutting sandwiches into triangles, though he looked up as Rurik entered, Cerys right behind him. With a nod to Cerys, he inclined his head towards Rurik in curiosity.

“Look who popped in for a visit,” he said. Thoradin barely had time to look up before Rurik followed up his own statement. “It’s Miss Jones!”

“So it is,” Thoradin said. “Have you had lunch, Miss Jones?”

“I…” Cerys paused. Come to think of it, she could not remember eating anything all day. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Don’t you worry, we’ll sort you out, Miss Jones, won’t we dear?” Rurik asked, glancing to Thoradin who simply nodded and went back to cutting sandwiches. “This way then, Miss Jones.” Rurik led Cerys back into the hall, and through another door, into a well-furnished sitting room. She took a seat upon the settee, and leant her back against the peacock blue blanket draped over the back of the seat. Rurik sat opposite.

A few moments later, Thoradin wandered in and set the plate of sandwich triangles down onto the walnut table, before taking a seat beside his husband.

“So how might we help you, Miss Jones?” Thoradin asked.

“Help yourself,” Rurik added. “Are you feeling better after your little fainting spell at the Summer Fete?”

“That was months ago,” Thoradin scoffed. “If she was under the weather, I doubt she’d be up and about like this,” he added and the two of them turned their gaze to Cerys, somewhat expectantly.

“I’m fine. It was just exhaustion from the heat,” she said, desperate to avoid getting into the whole conspiracy surrounding the filth fever, lest she sound downright insane.

“You’ve got to be careful, really. We’ve had some incredibly warm summers the past few years,” Thoradin says.

“I wonder how Falkrun copes. She’s from Icewind Dale, isn’t she?” Rurik asked, turning his attention back to his husband. Thoradin nodded.

Rurik’s eyes lit up in amusement and delight. “Oh, deary me! You’ve got flour on your face!”  
Cerys looked up to glance at Thoradin’s pockmarked cheek. Rurik wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t noticed. Though, come to think of it, she’d avoided eye contact with just about everyone for most of the day. Thoradin scoffed again, and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. He managed only to smear the flour across his dark skin, but Rurik said nothing more.

“It’s funny that you should mention Falkrun,” Cerys said, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. She raised her hand. It hovered near the tray of sandwiches and Rurik nodded eagerly. With a great deal of hesitation, she picked one up and took a bite, savouring the flavour.

“Why is that?” Thoradin asked.

“Is she alright? She’s not hurt, is she?”

Cerys shook her head. “She’s fine. I actually paid her a visit this afternoon to ask for her assistance. Unfortunately, she was unable to help.”

“Anything we can assist with?”

“Oh, it’s nothing important… She only mentioned that she was a baker before she turned to curries.”

“Not just any baker,” Rurik said. “Honestly, as far as cakes are concerned, damn girl could run circles around us,” he said, a warm smile spreading across his cheeks. Cerys found it odd how supportive Rurik seemed of Falkrun, when - from speaking to Falkrun - Cerys had been certain she and the Frostbeards were mortal enemies. “She used to bake the cake for the Pig Agility prize, but… I don’t know what she did to Arveen. Either way, the two had a falling out of some sort. Falkrun lost the Pig Agility gig, and damned near all of her business.”

Cerys’ eyes narrowed. "Do you know what the falling out was about?” Cerys asked.

“I’m not clear on the details,” Rurik said.

“We try to steer clear of that sort of drama,” Thoradin added. “It’s... bad for business.”

“Of course,” Cerys said. “So… the cake. It’s a prestigious honour, from what I understand.” Rurik nodded, his ever-present smile widening. “It must be hard, though. No one sees the cake until it is unveiled alongside the winner. You bake this beautiful cake, and no one can see it until only moments before it is devoured.”

Thoradin chuckled. “A sad part of the job, for sure.”

“Do you ever show any of your friends?” she asked.

“Hoping you’ll get a peek at next year’s before the winner is announced?” Rurik asked and laughed. Cerys forced a smile.

“Shandri always sees the cake before it’s unveiling, of course. And this year, Mr Jassan got to see it, because he lent one of his tins to us,” Thoradin said. “That’s about it, though.”

“Oh, we’ve had help from Falkrun on a few occasions,” Rurik said. “She still helps out. I think she enjoys knowing that the town is unknowingly appreciating her work.”

“Why doesn’t she just sell cake? People clearly enjoy it, and no one wants her…” Cerys paused to shudder. “No one wants her curry. She’d do better selling cake, surely.”

“Pride, mostly.”

“Did she help out this year?”

“No, not this year. She said she was too busy trying to keep the Fireforge afloat.”

Cerys nodded in understanding. “Well… Thank you for the sandwich. I should be getting back to work, really,” she said.

“It was wonderful to see you,” Rurik said. “Though, I was sad to hear about things not working out between you and Mr Vargoba, I’m delighted to see you with Mr Astorio - he’s ever so handsome.”  
Cerys choked. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you think, Thoradin?”

“Well, he’s not my type - too tall - but I can certainly appreciate the appeal.”

“Dear gods, is there anyone in this town who is  _not_  attracted to Diero?” Cerys muttered under her breath.

Both Rurik and Thoradin burst into fits of laughter.

“Dundragon. There’s a woman you’ll never see batting her lashes at your dear Mr Astorio, Miss Jones,” Thoradin said, sliding his arm across his husband’s shoulders. Rurik leaned into him. Insipid. Cerys did her best to keep the sour expression from taking over her features. Raising her brows, she pulled herself to her feet.

“Well… thank you for the… I’m just repeating myself. Hopefully, I will see the two of you soon.”

“Absolutely - feel free to pop in whenever you feel like it, Miss Jones. You’re always welcome here,” Rurik said, and Thoradin nodded in agreement. “Oh, and if you  _do_ want to know about Falkrun’s drama, just make sure Captain Dundragon doesn’t find out you’ve been sticking your nose into Falkrun’s business,” he added in afterthought.

“Thank you for the forewarning,” Cerys said. “I’ll see myself to the door.”

“You take care of yourself,” Thoradin said.

Nodding, Cerys brushed her skirt down, and headed into the hallway. She was at the door when she heard Rurik remark something about her being ever such a lovely girl. Freezing in place, she was half-tempted to go back and remind him of her age, but she supposed it wasn’t worth the effort.

Rolling her eyes and sighing, she headed back out into Secomber.

Cerys took a deep breath. She had hoped it would help her summon the courage to open the door before her, but the sight of Diero’s office door had elicited more fear than she had expected, and so instead, her fingers rested limply upon the wood.

Closing her eyes, she clenched her jaw and sighed, shaking her head. That’s when the door opened to reveal Diero, his discomfort worn upon his features.

“Cerys,” he said.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

“I just want to say that I’m incredibly sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you - it’ll never happen again, I swear.”

Cerys sighed. “That’s not what I came here to talk about,” she said.

Diero’s throat shuddered as he swallowed. Blinking a few times, he sighed and stepped aside to allow her entrance. “Of course,” he said, gesturing for her to step inside.

He closed the door behind her, before stepping around her and sitting himself down in his armchair before gesturing to the settee across from himself. She didn’t take a seat. Avoiding his gaze, she folded her arms and wet her lips.

“So… what did you wish to speak about?”

“I have a new lead in the filth fever case,” she said. Diero’s brows rose in curiosity as he nodded for her to continue. “Falkrun Fireforge used to bake the cake for the Pig Agility, until she and Ms Evenwood had a falling out of some sort. It ruined Miss Fireforge’s business. I spoke with the Frostbeards, and they seem to think they’re friends with Miss Fireforge, however… when I spoke to Miss Fireforge, she seemed less than friendly.”

“So you think Falkrun Fireforge poisoned the cake to frame the Frostbeards?”

“It’s certainly possible. Her falling out with Arveen Evenwood has led to a decline in her business, but she didn’t mention that at all. She seemed to blame the Frostbeards. Her business is doing so poorly, she can’t take even a couple of days off, for fear of losing her home. She says they knocked her out of the competition.”

Diero’s eyes widened in delight. Cerys wasn’t sure why he would be happy about hearing of a potential murderer, but he was pleased and that was clear from the way he laced his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair.

“And that, my darling Miss Jones… is what we call  _motive_.”

Cerys nodded. “Now, the Frostbeards said Falkrun has helped them on the cake for several years, but not this year. I think that sounds-”

“Entirely too convenient, yes. Plausible deniability. If the cake was poisoned, it couldn’t possibly have been Miss Fireforge, and it must have been the Frostbeards, and considering she didn’t assist them this year, there’s no way for her to have known about any such illicit activities,” Diero said, looking almost  _impressed_. “If you’re right, then that’s a very clever move on Falkrun’s part.”

Cerys nodded. “Well… she  _is_  a skilled mage from what I hear.”

“That, she is. It takes a smart woman to learn magic like that. How very interesting,” he said, then he sighed. “Unfortunately, Cerys… we can’t prosecute her on suspicion alone.”

“I understand that. We need more proof.”

“And it’s not going to be easy to obtain. You see, there are a few people in this town who are… let’s say  _beyond reproach_ ,” he said. “Falkrun Fireforge is rather high up that list. You’d have an easier time bringing charges against Ciara Dundragon, herself.”

“What are you saying?”

“If we have evidence, it must be irrefutable, because there are people in this very courthouse who would see both of us hang before allowing us to bring a charge against Falkrun Fireforge.”

“She seems to believe the town hates her,” she said. “Ms Evenwood ruined her career. How does she still have a job at the courthouse, if there are people here protecting Miss Fireforge.”

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘keep your friends close’?”

“You seem to be implying Ms Evenwood has enemies within the courthouse.”

“Oh, I’m not  _implying_  anything.”

Cerys brushed a rogue strand of hair from her face, and watched Diero closely, though he said nothing more. “Well, that’s all I came to say,” she said, turning towards the door.

“I want to talk to you, Miss Jones. I want to talk to you about the other night. I waited at home for as long as I could, I’ve been there all morning, hoping you’d come back. I’m glad you came in today… I just want to talk to you.”

Cerys seized up. Staring at the back of the door, she shuddered. “I know,” she mumbled. “I know you do… and I appreciate that, but…” Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “We have so much going on that there are more important things to consider, such as adequate protection for our expedition to Unicorn Run.”

“So  _that’s_  why you were talking to Falkrun. Hopefully, now you’ll avoid her.”

Cerys shook her head. “If anything, now I am certain I want her to come with me. You said it yourself - we need proof, beyond doubt, that she did it. We’re not going to get that by avoiding her,” she said.

“I…”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to speak with Ms Evenwood.” She turned back to the door again.

“Then will I see you later?” he asked. “Please. For dinner.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“I’ll cook roast. No pepper.”

Cerys fought the smile tugging at her lips. She almost failed, but then she recalled her discussion with Shandri from that morning and nausea overwhelmed her.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, and made a swift exit from Diero’s office. She resisted the urge to stand outside his door, listening in, and somehow managed to force herself to walk down towards Arveen’s office.

The door was open, and Arveen was sat upon a cream armchair, knitting a blanket with rose pink wool. She looked up at the sound of Cerys and smiled. “Is everything alright, dear?”

“I was wondering if I might speak with you about something?”

“If it’s about Diero, I’m sorry - I don’t know where he is. He’s been out all morning, I’m afraid,” she said.

“No, I found him in his office.”

“Oh, well then… by all means,” she said, and beckoned Cerys in with her hand. Cerys obliged and stood awkwardly in the doorway. “So what might I assist you with?”

“It’s… it’s actually about Miss Fireforge.”

Arveen’s usually pleasant features soured immediately, her brow furrowing. “What’s she done  _now_?”

“Oh, nothing. It was only that… I was over at the Frostbeards’ house and they mentioned they’d not always had the privilege of baking the cake for the Pig Agility. They said it used to be none other than Falkrun Fireforge’s job,” she said. “I was considering hiring her services, but I wanted to make sure she isn’t going to cause any issues.”

“Well, she is,” Arveen said so bluntly that Cerys flinched. “Did you hear what she said to poor old Mara? She said to dear Mara that she would reduce her risk of a heart attack if she only ate better -  _right after Mara’s husband had just died_! Of a heart attack, no less!”

Cerys took a deep breath. “Is Mara’s diet particularly  _bad_?”

“Of course not!” Arveen snapped. “She eats perfectly well, and so getting such a silly remark from a woman who baked  _cakes_ for a living, no less, is nothing short of outrageous!”

“Of course,” Cerys said, though she was more confused than anything.

“Well, of course I told everyone I know what a nosey, good-for-nothing, second-rate baker she is,” Arveen muttered. “Now she thinks she can make a living on curry? Hah! Who even likes curry? That’s the problem with dwarves, Miss Jones. They think - just because they’ve been alive for so long - they know everything about everything. Then, they come to our dear Secomber from miserable places - like Icewind Dale - and try to infect us with their misery!”

“Right.” Arveen looked at her, as if expecting her to say something of value. Cerys faltered in the silence. “Drizzt Do’Urden lived in Icewind Dale.”

There was more silence. Silence, in which Arveen stared at Cerys as if she’d just said something incredibly stupid. Cerys felt heat rushing to her cheeks.

Continuing as if Cerys had said nothing whatsoever, Arveen launched into another tirade. “And furthermore, pardon me for not taking life advice from someone who doesn’t even want to live,” she added in a laugh. “Obnoxious woman, she is.”

“I think I’ll go speak to Mara,” Cerys said, trying to smile. She managed only a grimace as she backed away, pulling the door to behind her, the quiet tapping of knitting needles filling the void in the conversation. Once safely away from Arveen, Cerys took a deep breath and turned her back to the door. She’d have to remember never to mention Falkrun in conversation again.


	38. By Fair Means or Fowl

Mara Marsk’s home seemed gloomier than usual. Silence; a palpable silence. Something was amiss, though Cerys could not quite put her finger on it. Her breath lingered in her throat as the gravel path leading to Mara’s rotting door crunched beneath each deliberate step.

She drew back her fist to knock, but as it connected, the door creaked and swung inwards. Cerys’ stomach twisted at the sight of feathers in the dark hallway.

“Mrs Marsk?” she called out, and held her breath in silence, waiting for any kind of a response. It did not come. Cerys swallowed, and pushed the door further, allowing light to flood the dim hallway. The light streamed in, catching every dust particle, and Cerys had to squint to see past the refracted glow. “Mrs Marsk?” she called again.

When Mara did not answer for the second time, Cerys stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath her foot and her stomach turned over in surprise. Biting her lower lip, she bent down to examine the feathers; they were the same honey brown as the one she’d found in her hair. Plucking one between her fingers, she rose to her feet, and held it up to the light.

 _Clatter_. Her head snapped towards where the sound had come from. Her stomach twisted into knots. Taking a deep breath, she made her way further into the house, towards the grimy kitchen. It looked exactly as it had done the last time she’d visited, and she was certain Mara hadn’t cleaned a single thing. It smelled worse. Worse than anything she’d ever smelled.  _Clatter_.

The back door swung on its hinges, hitting the doorframe. It sat askew. Cerys could not recall it being so lopsided on her last visit, but she hadn’t been looking.  _Clatter_. Something was stopping it from shutting all the way, though the breeze was trying its hardest. Her gaze fell to the floor as she took a step closer.

Wedged between the door and its frame, Mara’s hand lay limp. “ _Oh, gods_!” Cerys gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. She took a half-step back. A wave of nausea washed over her.  _Clatter_. The door swung again. She closed her eyes, her heart racing. Taking a deep breath - one she regretted - she reached for the handle, and her hand hovered only inches away when she realised this could very well be a crime scene. She froze and swallowed again, though it did nothing to abate the growing nausea.

“What do I do?” she asked in a whisper, taking another step back. Grimacing, she turned away, hand still over her mouth. She had to get Diero. He’d know what to do. She didn’t particularly want to see him again just yet, but… Opening her eyes, she glanced over her shoulder at Mara’s hand, her features twisting in uncertainty. She turned her head back towards the front door and took quick strides, pulling the door to - but not closed - behind her.

It felt as though only seconds had passed before she was back in Diero’s office. The man in question looked up from his desk, his glasses half way down his nose. At the sight of Cerys’ pale features, he plucked them from his face and placed them down upon the table.

“Cerys?”

“I…” She didn’t know how to say it. “Something happened.”

“Are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shook her head. “But… Mara. Mara… She’s…”

“Mrs Marsk?”

Cerys nodded. “Yes. She’s… Diero, she’s  _dead_.”

Diero brought his fist to his mouth, his blue eyes widening. He sat in silence for a moment, his breaths shallow and inaudible. After a moment of sitting, motionless, he nodded. “Right,” he said, rising to his feet. Reaching under his desk, he produced a briefcase, and then stepped around the desk and towards Cerys.

“Let’s go,” he said. Cerys nodded, following closely behind him as he made straight for Mara’s.

The house was exactly as Cerys had left it. In truth, she wished it wasn’t, desperately longing for it to have been a bad dream, to find Mara in her armchair, drinking from a leaky teacup. Regardless of her wishes, it was not so. As she and Diero timidly stepped into the kitchen, Mara’s hand was where Cerys had left it; sticking through the doorway.

“I am so sorry you found this, Cerys,” Diero said, placing a hand upon the small of her back. Cerys nodded. “I… must warn you.”

“Why?”

“Depending on how long she’s been here, this could be… very unpleasant.”

“How much more unpleasant could it be?” she asked.

“I promise you, you don’t want to ask that question,” Diero said. “I’ve seen… some horrible things in my years as a lawman. If you want to stand out front while I deal with this, now would be a good time to go, because when I open that door… whatever you see, you will never forget,” he said.

Cerys’ eyes strayed to the front door. She’d have been lying if she said she did not want to stand as far away from Mara’s motionless body as possible, but this was the job she’d chosen, the life she’d chosen. There was no turning back now. Face crumpling, she shook her head.

“No… Open the door,” she said.

Diero scrutinised her, reading her expression very clearly before finally nodding in resignation. Taking a deep breath, he wet his lips and reached out, closing his hand around the doorknob. Mouthing a count to three, each silent number punctuated by a nod, he finally pulled the door open.

Flies exploded from the corpse, and Cerys let out a cry that was a mixture of shock and horror at the sight of Mara’s remains. Her skin was no longer pale and loose, but orange and brown, and leathery. Her hair was sparser than Cerys had ever seen it. Her once piercing eyes were nothing more than dark chasms, though her glasses lay at an angle across her feet.

Surrounding her body was a dark liquid that looked entirely too much like blood for Cerys to feel calm, and not nearly enough like blood for Cerys to feel comfortable. Maggots crawled across her skin, but they weren’t the only things eating. Ribbons of Mara’s clothing were left strewn across the back garden, her blood stained the hay, and the bed of feathers that rested atop the hay. However, worse of all was the stench; the unmistakable, and oppressive stench of decay.

Only Mara’s hand was left intact, although upon closer inspection, it too seemed lifeless, the flesh marbled and stiff.

“By the gods… how awful,” Diero sighed. “She’s been here for days.”

“What do you think happened?”

He shook his head. “Honestly? She was an old woman, and she lived in an absolute tip… It’s possible she slipped over something and hit her head on the steps here,” he said, gesturing to the step just outside of the door. “Alternatively, she might have had a heart attack or a stroke.” Sighing, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to guard his own hand as he lifted her fingers to examine. “It was likely a very quick death, so there’s a small comfort.”

Cerys nodded, though she felt far from comforted.

“That’s the problem with getting to be dear old Mara’s age. You start falling to pieces.”

“She didn’t fall to pieces. She was ripped to pieces.” Cerys grunted, gesturing to the shreds of Mara’s dress strewn across the garden. Diero glanced at her, and nodded bitterly. “This is just  _awful_.”

He nodded again. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her,” he said, then hesitated. “Why  _were_  you here?” he asked.

Sighing, Cerys wrapped her arms around herself. “I… told Paelias about Unicorn Run. He wanted in. Then, I told Shandri. She recommended I ask Ms Fireforge. I did, but she said she couldn’t help me because of her business. So I went to the Frostbeards’ to find out what the issue was. They said she’d argued with Ms Evenwood. Ms Evenwood said it had something to do with Mrs Marsk,” she said. “Honestly, I came to twist Mara’s arm into taking back her criticism of Ms Fireforge, so that her business could pick up, so that she’d come with us.”

Diero blinked. “So you really want to do it?” he asked. “You want to come with me to the Vault of the Nine.”

“Of course I do,” Cerys said.

“Well, you ran away.”

“I needed to  _think_ ,” she said. “I  _thought_ about it and realised I wanted to go.”

“And Ms Kulenov told you to bring Ms Fireforge on board?” Diero asked. Cerys nodded and he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Conniving woman,” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, Cerys… this… What I’m about to do,” he said, turning his gaze back to the corpse. “You have to understand  _why_.”

“Why  _what_ , Diero? That sounds rather ominous.”

“None of Mrs Marsk’s friends and loved ones deserve to see her like this. It’s undignified and… I can’t bear the thought of Mrs Marsk being remembered like this. I shan’t pretend I was her biggest fan, but… she was still a person.”

“You haven’t said what you’re going to do.”

“Furthermore… there might be a way to salvage Ms Fireforge’s career.”

Cerys blinked. “How?”

Diero took a deep breath and reached into his briefcase, pulling out a vial of water that emanated a warm light. Uncorking it, he sprinkled it over Mara’s body, and began to chant quietly under his breath. Cerys knew better than to interrupt him, leaving him to whisper to Mara’s remains for a good minute or so, until he fell silent once more.

“What did you-?” Cerys stopped speaking. Her eyes widened as the damage to Mara’s body started to reverse. The organs inside Mara reformed, and her skin shifted hues until it was back to its rosy porcelain colour. “ _Oh_.”

Diero nodded. “You visited Mara to ask her about Ms Fireforge,” he said. “You found her slumped in her chair. She had suffered a heart attack and was on her deathbed, and her dying wish was to undo any of the hurt she caused in her life. You came to find me, but unfortunately, I arrived too late, and Mara had passed away.”

There was a churning, deep in Cerys’ gut. He was asking her to lie. Outright lie. She knew it wouldn’t matter. Mara was dead. If her death could bring about at least some good, that couldn’t be  _that_ bad. She’d have felt more comfortable with it, had she come to help Falkrun Fireforge for the sake of helping a struggling business owner, but she hadn’t. She’d come to help Falkrun for the sake of helping  _herself_. This felt anything but good to Cerys.

Diero continued to stare at her. He’d done something for her. Something probably illegal. For her. She couldn’t reject his help, now… not now that he’d already done it. Swallowing her fear, she closed her eyes and nodded.

“Yes, Cerys?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“ _Cerys_?”

“Yes,” she said again, this time louder.

Diero waited until her eyes were open and focused on him, before nodding. Pressing her lips together, she turned away from the body, holding herself tightly. This felt wrong.

“We should tidy up,” she said. “The blood in the garden and the feathers in the house,” she added. “If anyone comes here to sort through her belongings, they’re going to notice all of the blood.”

“You’re right. Good thinking.”

“Why do I feel like we’re covering up a crime scene?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“There was no crime, Cerys. This is not a crime scene. We are giving a woman who lived a good, long life, the dignified death she deserves,” he said. “We are also just making sure she can do good by Ms Fireforge in the process.”

She forced a nod, but she could not bring herself to agree. “I will tidy the garden. Can you tidy the house?”

“Yes. Then, we should dress poor Mrs Marsk, here, and put her in her armchair.”

“Right,” Cerys whispered, and bent down to open the kitchen cupboard, searching for a rake, or a dustpan and brush, or anything she might be able to use to tidy up the garden. She found a sack and a broom, and took one in either hand. Her fingers trembled, her hands unable to grip either.

“Cerys,” Diero said, placing a hand upon her back again. She put the broom and sack down, and turned to face him. He smelled of sickness. Her eyes widened as she pictured herself arriving at work, only to find him slumped in his chair, maggots devouring his body.

Her eyes stang as she reached up with her hands to hold his face. He inclined his head in curiosity.

“Please don’t die on me,” she whispered. “Please.”

Sighing, he placed his hands upon her forearms, his fingers lightly grazing her skin. His features softened. “Oh, Cerys.” Leaning down, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Please. Just promise me I will never have to find you like this.”

“I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“ _I promise_.”

“I never want to see you on the floor, lifeless and cold and… I… I can’t take even the  _thought_  of that.”

“Cerys,” he said sharply, leaning back to look her in the eye. “I promise, alright? I promise. I don’t go back on my promises.” Lifting his hand to her cheek, he gently parted her lips with his thumb, and leaned in again.

Gasping in a shuddering breath, she tensed and pulled away from him, wrapping her arms back around herself. He backed up, giving her enough room to manoeuvre around him. She remained in place for a moment, before taking the broom and bag once more.

“We should…” she said, gesturing to the broom in her hand. He nodded.

“You’re right. We should.”

Stepping around him, Cerys headed over the back door, freezing before Mara’s lifeless body. Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the woman’s remains and into the garden.


	39. A Secret to the Grave

The back step was clean. Cerys wasn’t sure how she’d managed, but somehow any sign that Mara Marsk had ever lain motionless - body decaying in the sun - was gone, giving way to a back step that was most likely cleaner than it had been in some years. Cerys, on the other hand, was dirtier than she’d ever been. Her clothes were stained with the congealed body fluids she’d had to kneel in, and maggots crawled across her boots, and no matter how many times she tried to kick them off, there always seemed to be more.

Diero had swept up the feathers in the hallway, and had even wrangled a rogue chicken he’d found in Mara’s sitting room when he’d gone to take her body to her chair before joining Cerys on his hands and knees with a cloth and a bucket of warm soapy water.

Now that the step was clean, they sat back and stared at the empty space Mara’s body had occupied until only a few hours again. Cerys willed herself to move, the scent of death upon her, suffocating her until she feared she might join Mara in her eternal slumber. Anything would have been better than the twisting in her gut.

“Are you alright?” Diero asked, pressing his shoulder to hers. She turned her head to look at him. Her brow furrowed. He nodded in understanding and she looked away again. “This was the right thing to do.”

“I know.”

“It’s… part of the job. It’s not always easy, but Mara’s death will upset a great many people. Even though she was a difficult woman, and…” he paused to glance about the garden, “ruffled more than a few feathers, she…” He trailed off, his features twisting in discomfort, unsure of his choice of words.

“She’s a part of this town. She belongs here… Belonged here.”

“Right,” he said. “So, her death may as well bring some peace to someone.”

“I understand.”

Rising to his feet in one graceful motion, he offered his hand down to Cerys. Her gaze lingered upon the tips of his fingers. After a moment of silence, she slipped her hand into his and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Taking her hand back immediately, she laced her fingers together.

“We’ll go back to my house,” he said. “We should get cleaned up, and then break the news to Arveen.”

Cerys nodded, though she couldn’t have been less certain of herself. She wasn’t sure if it was the smell, or the unignorable sense of guilt swelling in her stomach, but it didn’t matter; bile rose in her throat all the same.

“Come on,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders, leading her into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him with his free hand. He led her by the shoulders to his own home. Even the wilting hydrangeas by his front door seemed to be in mourning. Cerys joined them as Diero unlocked the front door and took her inside.

Diero’s house was warmer than Mara’s, but then, his back door hadn’t been left open for - possibly - days. Turning to face Cerys, he brushed her hair out of her face, and lifted her chin.

“Do you mind if I wash first?” he asked. “Then I can make you some dinner while you bathe, sort your clothes out, and deal with the Mara situation,” he added.

He could have said anything. Cerys would have nodded all the same. With a half-hearted smile, he stroked her cheek with his thumb, and headed for the door at the end of the hall that led to the stairs. The stairs creaked as he ascended, leaving Cerys in the silent and otherwise empty downstairs.

Closing her eyes, she brought her hand up to her cheek, where the feeling of his touch lingered. Her hair fell back out of place as she shook her head slowly. She wanted to be at home, not in Diero’s. She wanted to be in her own bed, not standing dumbfounded in his hallway. She supposed she ought to move and make herself useful.

Swallowing the uncertainty, she headed into Diero’s study. The map hung upon the wall, though Diero had painted red the end of pins that he’d then pushed into the three locations they had uncovered. Twine, tied around the outside of the pins, marked out the triangle Cerys had found. Following this map would be hard when, for starters, it was mounted to a wall, but even if they took it down, it was far too large and unwieldy to take with them to Unicorn Run. She felt it couldn’t be the only map Diero owned.

She glanced about the room for drawers or a cupboard, but her search found only his desk. Sighing, she paced around to the other side and sat down in his chair. The leather creaked. Her eyes narrowed. This was his study, and his desk, and his chair. Presumably, he used it often. A well-worn leather chair should not creak.

Sighing, she put it out of her mind, and opened the top drawer. There was nothing in there, saved a folded handkerchief. Retrieving it, she glanced up at the door to make sure Diero wasn’t stood there before peeling back one corner. A lock of dark brown hair lay curled within, and her stomach twisted with guilt. She shouldn’t have looked. Putting it back, she opened the second draw. It was filled to the top with rolled up parchment and scrolls. Grabbing a handful, she dumped them onto the top of the desk, before unfurling the first one.

Scrawled across its surface were symbols unlike Cerys had ever seen before. Her brow furrowed, gaze wandering the jumble of nonsensical scribbles. Sighing, she shook her head and rolled it up once more, putting it down on the table, before reaching back into the draw. Her fingers chanced upon the spine of a book. Pulling it from the bottom of the pile of scrolls, she studied it. The leather cover was cracked, and the dog-eared pages stopped it from shutting entirely.

Cocking her head to the side, she couldn’t help but wonder what reason Diero might have had to hide this book at the bottom of a drawer in his study. Putting the book down on the desk, it seemed to want to open at a specific page, as if it had been held open on this page for a great deal of time. The page in question bore the faded ink and dry vellum of age.

_When the trials begin, in soul-torn solitude despairing, the hunter waits alone. The companions emerge from fast-bound ties of fate uniting against a common foe._

_When the shadows descend, in Hell-sworn covenant unswerving the blighted brothers hunt, and the godborn appears, in rose-blessed abbey reared, arising to loose the godly spark._

_When the harvest time comes, in hate-fueled mission grim unbending, the shadowed reapers search. The adversary vies with fiend-wrought enemies, opposing the twisting schemes of Hell._

_When the tempest is born, as storm-tossed waters rise uncaring, the promised hope still shines. And the reaver beholds the dawn-born chosen's gaze, transforming the darkness into light._

_When the battle is lost, through quake-tossed battlefields unwitting the seasoned legions march, but the sentinel flees with once-proud royalty, protecting devotion's fragile heart._

_When the ending draws near, with ice-locked stars unmoving, the threefold threats await,_

_and the herald proclaims, in war-wrecked misery, announcing the dying of an age._

Her fingers traced the words. They were Thorass, or perhaps something older, for they gave her some difficulty as she read them. The scratchy hand they had been written in did nothing to help. Beneath the passage was a series of symbols similar to that of the scroll. They were accompanied by words in a language she could not read, though they had been signed off with a name;  _Szass Tam_.

She swallowed, not sure of why she felt so uncomfortable, but something was wrong. She could feel it; a coldness clawing at her insides, the dryness in her mouth, a rising nausea. Snapping the book shut, she thrust it back into the drawer, and took a deep breath to calm herself. She’d read something she shouldn’t have.

She didn’t know what any of it meant, but she knew it hadn’t been meant for her eyes. Blinking a few times, as if it might rid her of the intrusive thoughts of what she’d read, she started sorting through the scrolls.

She wasn’t sure how many she’d sorted through when she finally found a map of the Sword Coast. It was fairly old, the edges of the paper had been rendered soft with use, and there were small corrections made in a red ink, brighter than the faded black of the original map. Still, it would do.

Throwing her shoulders back, she unrolled the map in its entirety and lay it flat upon the table, weighing down its edges with various bottles of ink she’d found lying around on Diero’s desk. She glanced around for anything wooden and straight, but her eyes found nothing. Rising to her feet, she made her way into the kitchen.

She hadn’t been in the kitchen before. It wasn’t as clean as she was expecting. Stacked up beside the sink were plates and dishes from the past week. She recognised the remnants of meals she’d eaten, and a couple she hadn’t. He’d had someone else over. Her stomach twisted into knots, and though she tried, she was unable to push the thoughts of Shandri from her mind.

Not allowing herself so much as a sigh, she grabbed a wooden spoon from a clay jar, when her gaze landed upon a serrated blade, sitting in a pool of wet blood atop his counter. She stopped. Dead in her tracks. A lump formed in her throat.

Before she could stop herself, she tore a piece from the hem of her dress, wet it, and wiped away some of the blood from the knife, though when she took a step back, it looked rather obvious that this was precisely what she had done. Cursing inwardly, she pocketed the scrap, filled the sink with water, and set about washing up all of the plates. It didn’t take long, though she wasn’t convinced she’d done a very good job. At least it was a good enough excuse as to why the bloody knife was no longer bloody, and Diero would never notice the tear in her skirt, not when it was already so ruined from scrubbing Mara’s back step.

When the kitchen was considerably cleaner than how she’d found it, she headed back into the study with the wooden spoon. She marked off a small increment in the spoon, before using it to measure a series of squares, which she then marked off on the map. She was just over half way done when the door to the study swung inwards.

“Is that my map?” Diero asked before Cerys had a chance to register his presence.

“You can take it out of my wages,” she muttered, too focused on drawing the grid to look up. “You should invest in a wooden straightedge.”

“I have one.”

“I couldn’t find it,” she said. He sighed, and finally she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’m sorry about your map.”

“No, no… I’m more just curious as to  _what_  you’re doing to my map.”

Cerys nodded in understanding, and turned her attention back to the gridlines. “I’m plotting out a grid. See, when we plot out the triangle of the three locations on the wall map, we can find the centre point, but for a start off, the details on that map are too small to get an accurate location to travel to, and furthermore the map itself is far too large for us to take with us. Now, on  _this_ map,” she said, gesturing to the map before her, “the length of Unicorn Run is sixty four and a half squares - so then we need a correlating grid on the wall map, measuring the length of Unicorn Run to sixty four and a half squares. Using that centre point - and the grid, we can use that centre point to scale our triangle down until it covers only one square in the grid. Using that square, we can then refer to the correlating square on our more portable map.” She took turns gesticulating wildly between both maps as she spoke, Diero’s head following her frantic motions. When she concluded, he remained in silence for a moment.

“Well… it’s certainly more complicated than I would have done it,” he said.

“No, but you see… the squares are small enough to ensure all the bends in the river are easily mapped out, so we can follow along the river and count the squares we’ve travelled.”

“I’m sorry… where did sixty four and a half come from? Why that number?”

“Oh! Right! I forgot to mention. This small map has a distance reference in the corner, and I figured out the distance between Secomber and the base of the Star Mounts is about two hundred miles. I read in the book about Drizzt Do’Urden that the average human walks at about three point one miles per hour. So I divided two hundred by three point one, which gave me sixty four… and a half. Then I simply had to divide the space between Secomber and the base of the Star Mounts by sixty four and a half and that helped me work out the grid size. I mean it’s not perfect, but-”

“Cerys Jones, never let anyone on this plane - or another, for that matter - tell you that you are anything other than utterly brilliant.”

Diero’s compliment caught her off-guard. Her mouth hung open, letting out strings of half-formed words and uncertain mumbles, before she took a deep breath, deciding to continue on as if he’d said nothing. “So, when we plot out the triangle of the three locations on the wall map, we can find the centre point, and divide as many times as we need to, and that should allow us to get a clearer look on the close-up map of where exactly we have to go, and we can measure it in-”

“In hours, because each square is roughly one hour of travel. You are brilliant.”

“I…”

“I mean, this is all… phenomenally complicated, and could definitely have been simplified a great deal, but you… People… You, in your sheltered upbringing, could not even imagine the sum of gold people pay to go to university, for decades, in the hopes they leave even half as smart as you just  _are_.”

Cerys could not find where she had put her breath. She attempted a smile, though her mouth pulled awkwardly to one side. “Oh,” she said. It was all she could manage.

“I will finish what you started here. You go bathe. I found some of my sister’s old clothes. Can’t imagine she’d mind you wearing them, though I will admit your taste and hers… let’s say  _differ_ , a small deal,” he said. “The bath is in the bathroom - obviously. It’s the first door on the right, you can’t miss it. My room is at the end of the hall; feel free to use it to get changed. I will leave some sandwiches in the kitchen for you, but after I solve this puzzle you’ve laid out for me, I must be off to inform Arveen Evenwood of her friend’s passing.”

Nodding, Cerys rose to her feet and stepped around the table, heading for the door. Diero cleared his throat.

“I noticed you cleaned my kitchen, by the way,” he said. She jerked to a halt, her blood running ice cold. Her stomach churned in anticipation. “I… Thank you,” he said, after a minute of silence. “Often, I get so caught up in these cases I forget to do the simple things. It means a lot that I have you taking care of me.”

She forced a laugh. “I would hardly consider it taking care of you,” she said, glancing anxiously over her shoulder. He smiled, regardless, and stepped out of her way. “You’re welcome,” she added, and made for the stairs.

The stairwell was narrow, and dark, with a bend in the middle so that it coiled around upon itself. The landing, however, was light in comparison. Even in the twilight, a large arched window at the end of the landing poured light into the narrow passage. She was curious about his home. She knew she ought to head straight for the bathroom, but she couldn’t help herself.

There were three doors leading from the landing. One on the immediate right - presumably the bathroom, one on the left a little further down, and another on the right beyond that - Diero’s room, if she wasn’t mistaken. Swallowing her fear, she tiptoed past the first door on the right, and to the door on the left, about half way down the hall. Resting her hand upon the wooden-panelled walls, she reached for the door handle, when the floorboards creaked. Her stomach turned over, and she backtracked to the bathroom, stepping inside rather hastily.

Steam filled the air, making it a little hard to see the bath, filled with hot water. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to heat the water when she could not see a fire in the room, but she dared not question it too much, lest somehow it became undone.

Stripping away her filth-soaked clothes, she stepped into the water, which turned murky and dark brown almost immediately. Images of Mara’s body lying in the brown sludge flooded her mind. Inescapable. Clenching her jaw, Cerys wrapped an arm around her knees, and let her hair down, running her fingers through it. Peeking out of her pocket from where her dress lay in a heap on the floor, was the torn scrap soaked with the blood from the knife. Diero wasn’t telling her something.


	40. In Plain Sight

Cerys awoke to darkness with a vague memory of clambering - numb - out of the bath and towards Diero's room. She almost remembered pulling the clean clothes on, but everything beyond that was more akin to a smudge than a memory.

There was a blanket over her body, and a weight upon her ribs, and as she turned, she found the familiar face of a sleeping Diero, who had opted to sleep on top of the covers despite the approaching winter. For a brief moment, the corners of her lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, but it swiftly abandoned her as she recalled the blood-stained scrap of fabric still in her pocket.

She watched him in silence, wondering if she ought to wake him up, but she had other ideas. Images of the closed door down the hallway lingered at the forefront of her thoughts. Biting her lip, she cautiously slid out of his grasp, careful to not wake him, and stretched her legs.

Her steps were deliberate and quiet, and she attempted to steel herself, mentally chanting that she was doing nothing wrong. If he had nothing to hide, there was no reason she shouldn't look beyond the door. She did not succeed in fooling herself.

She pulled Diero's bedroom door to behind her, and made her way down the landing, towards the closed door. However... it wasn't closed. It was open just barely. It ought to have made her feel calmer, but instead, it served only to fill her insides with a timid coldness. She wet her lips and stepped in front of the door, and then suddenly remembered how the floor had creaked uneasily, the last time she had stood outside, and braced herself for the unsettling noise. It didn't come.

Sighing in relief, she pushed the door open, allowing the dim light of the hall to spill into the dark room, though it illuminated disappointingly little. She swallowed and took a step past the threshold. The floor creaked beneath her. Her jaw clenched, stomach twisting. Holding her breath, she remained in place, listening closely for the sound of Diero rousing. Silence. She took a deep breath to calm herself, though for all the good it did; her heart continued to race.

It dawned on her, just how stupid of an idea this had been, but she was already in the room, and the creak-- She stopped, dead still. If the creaking was on  _this_  side of the door, then she couldn't have been the one to cause it earlier that evening. Someone had to have been standing right here, right where she was standing. And if Diero had been downstairs at the time...

She turned on the spot - glancing around - desperately searching the darkness for anything she did not wish to see. Silent prayers to Mystra filled her thoughts, and instinctively, her hand raised to her own shoulder. It pulsed once with a dim, warm light, but the light extended deep inside her, filling her with a calmness, a courage that took her by surprise.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes narrowed. She pivoted to face the room again, and took another step further into the room. The room itself was a similar size to Diero's study, and had the stacked piles of books to match, though these books seemed...  _older_ ; their covers worn and covered in thick layers of dust.

The floor, however, was immaculate. With not one speck of dirt in sight, it could easily have been the cleanest floor in Diero's entire home... were it not for the dark stain upon the wooden floorboards by the far wall. She knelt beside the stain, leaning in to get a closer look.

"Blood...?" she whispered. Brow furrowed, she lifted her head and looked around for anything that might have caused a wound, when she remembered the knife in the kitchen. Closing her eyes as she rose to her feet, she took a moment to consider the implications of there being blood in Diero's spare room. She shook her head, as if it might somehow rid her of her thoughts. In an attempt to distract herself, she turned to the nearest pile of books, and lifted the cover by its corners - delicately as she could manage - careful to not smudge any of the dust on the cover.

On the first page was an illustration in dark ink, of a claw with three talons. The drawing was almost idle, as if doodled upon the page, and not printed as the other books she'd read had been. This felt hand-drawn. Lifting the next page, her gaze fell upon scratchy writing not dissimilar to the writing in the book she'd found at the bottom of the drawer in Diero's study. It wasn't quite the same, but the styles certainly matched. Whatever tongue it was written in, however, was beyond her.

Despite that, she could tell exactly what it was, for in the top corner of each page she thumbed through was the date. This was someone's journal, and whoever had written it seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with the Szass Tam she had read about downstairs.

Sighing, she closed the cover of the book, and turned her gaze about the room. On the back of the door hung something from a chain. She squinted, trying to make it out in the darkness. The same symbol from the book: a claw with three talons. Making her way over, she lifted it in her fingers, and studied it closely. She could feel something in it. A power of some kind, resonating, humming quietly.

Shaking her head again, she let go. It clattered against the door. Her hand jerked towards it to stop it from swinging again, and she held her breath in silence. There was a twist in her stomach when she heard the shuffles of Diero getting out of bed. Cursing inwardly, she took one final look at the dark room, wishing she'd had longer to investigate, before slipping out and pulling the door to - exactly as she'd found it.

Certain it was back in its rightful place, she took a step away from the door, and turned to head back to the bedroom. She was half way there when Diero stepped out in the hallway.

"Everything alright?" he asked. She stopped in place.

"Yes," she lied.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he closed the distance between her, putting his hands upon her shoulders. "Good," he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. She turned her head from him.

"Sorry," she said. "I just couldn't sleep."

"You climb back into bed. I'll fetch you a drink."

"It's fine," she said.

He lifted his hand, the backs of his fingers stroking the side of her neck, until his touch reached her cheek. "It's no bother."

"I'm fine. Honestly... I'm just...  _tired_."

Diero nodded. "Alright, then. Let's get you back to bed," he said. "We do have work tomorrow, after all."

She nodded back, and followed him as he led her back to his room. She climbed under the covers, and he lay on top once more, but she did not sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the drawn curtains, until the glow from outside spilled through, casting a warm streak of light across her cheek. It was some time after that, Diero awoke, though he continued to doze for another hour or so, until he was awake fully.

They got up in silence, and ate breakfast in silence, and headed to work together in silence, and sat down in Diero's office in silence, until finally, Diero broke the silence to ask her what was wrong.

"Nothing," she responded.

"Cerys... I know you are concerned about Mrs Marsk's passing," he said. "While you were bathing, I informed Arveen. She told me of how she'd been worried about Mrs Marsk's health for some time now... Perhaps you feel there was something you could have done, but... people... they grow old... they die. We couldn't have done anything to save Mrs Marsk."

"I know."

"All we could do was give her the dignity in death she deserved."

"I know."

"Good. So long as you know," he said, then hesitated. "If you need to take the day off..."

Wordlessly, Cerys rose to her feet and made her way to the door. She stood before it, taking deep breaths, words lingering on the tip of her tongue, though she lacked the energy to put voice to them.

"Cerys," Diero called to her. She looked over her shoulder. "You'd come to me if you needed to talk... wouldn't you?" he asked.

She forced a smile. "I... don't really talk."

"I know," he said, "so long as you know you  _can_  talk to me, and I would never judge you for what came out of your mouth."

She sighed, her eyes softening. "I'm just tired," she said.

"Well, you go rest. Come in later, if you feel up to it. Otherwise, I will see you later tonight or tomorrow," he said. She nodded. "Oh, and Cerys? Do look after yourself. I don't know what I'd do if anything ever happened to you."

She scoffed. "You'd have to give up solving those mysteries," she said. "There is no way I'm letting you solve mysteries with anyone else."

He laughed and waved his hand to dismiss her. Bowing her head in farewell, she stepped out of the office, pulling the door closed behind her. She remained in place for a few seconds, before breaking into a stride.

This time of morning, Paelias was likely to still be in the Seven Stringed Harp from the night before. She supposed there was only one way to know for sure, however, and made straight for the tavern, rolling her eyes at the tiresome sound of the harp's cliched melodies ringing through the ajar door.

As Cerys crossed the threshold into the tavern, she understood immediately why the door had been left open. The scent of puke hit her, sending a wave of nausea coursing through her own body. She turned away to gag, though thankfully, nothing came of it. At the mere sight of her stepping through the door, Paelias' two companions stood up and Paelias let out a groan.

"Jones," he called out, not even looking at her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Cerys stepped over the dwarf passed out drunk on the floor - though, at this point, she had to wonder if he might actually just be dead, and not unconscious - and made her way to Paelias' bench. She sat down across from him. His head cocked to one side as he spied the bags beneath her eyes.

"You look about as bad as I feel," he said with a laugh.

"Who is Szass Tam?"

Any semblance of laughter faded from his face, as his golden skin turned pale. "Where did you hear that name?"

"It doesn't matter. Who is Szass Tam?"

"Keep your voice down, Jones," he hissed, shaking his head. He took a deep breath to sober himself, pushing his drink towards her. Whether he had intended for her to take it, or whether he had simply been removing himself from temptation, it didn't matter. She picked the mug up all the same and threw her head back, downing its contents. Whatever it was, it was disgusting.

Slamming the mug back on the table, she looked him in the eye. "Who is Szass Tam?"

Paelias sighed. "Cerys, you live in a small town - Secomber is a small town - with small issues... This is not something you want to be worrying about. Shouldn't you be solving your pig's murder or whatever?"

"Just how big of an issue are we talking?" she asked.

"You don't want to hear about this... You don't want to know what man is capable of."

She was tempted, for a brief moment, to tell him of the bloody knife she found in Diero's kitchen, and the dried blood she'd found in his spare room, but couldn't bring herself to. Until she knew the truth, she couldn't assume anything.

"I think I already know what man is capable of," she said. "I just want to know who  _this_  man is."

Paelias shook his head, sighing in defeat. Lifting his arm, he rubbed the back of his neck and chewed on his lower lip. "Look, I'm... I'm not a scholar. What I know, I learned from that guy Isteval, and it's been a long time since I knew him," he said.

"Just tell me, Paelias."

"You know how we elect the Rods of Justice?" he asked. "And they make judiciary decisions and that... well... all the way over in the east, Thay had Zulkirs... kind of like the Rods, only they weren't exactly elected. There was one for each school of magic; abjuration, evocation, conjuration, enchantment, illusion, transmutation, divination, and - of course - necromancy. They were the best in their field," he said, placing his hands on the table. "Now, Thay has never been a  _nice_  place from what I hear... the whole city ran on slave labour, mostly Rashemi or something, but also... undead. A  _lot_  of undead."

Cerys nodded in understanding. "So this Szass Tam... he was a Zulkir?"

"Was?" Paelias repeated, scoffing. He shook his head. "No, Cerys... he betrayed all the other Zulkirs, until it was only him and his army of undead left. He twisted himself into an undead abomination - he's unkillable -  _unstoppable_. He's an ever-lurking threat, drunk on power."

She sighed, and closed her eyes. "Right," she said, trying desperately to understand why Diero would have a book - handwritten by such a man - in his desk drawer. Her eyes snapped open. "Thay, you said?" she asked, staring at him in horror.

"Yeah, why?"

"As in Red Wizards. You said they were powerful mages from  _Thay_. This is the same Thay?"

Paelias nodded with a shrug, and she sighed heavily in relief.

"Oh, thank the gods..." She shook her head. "I found a weird book in Diero's house, talking about Szass Tam, but... if he's trying to hunt a Red Wizard of Thay, that would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so," he said, then hesitated. "Are you alright, Jones? You look..."

"I just... I couldn't sleep," she said. "I've got so much work to do, and I just..."

"Take it easy, or you'll have another panic attack," he said. "Why were you so worried about this anyway?"

"I don't know... there was just some... weird stuff in the book, and I found a knife in Diero's kitchen and it had blood on it."

"Well... it's a kitchen."

She sighed. "I know, just... with the book, and then the knife, I felt... nervous. I'm just... I'm on edge."

Paelias shook his head. "This isn't about Diero, a knife, or a book... is it?" he asked. "You're worried about our plan to follow that riddle you solved, aren't you?" he asked.

She stared at him. It hadn't occurred to her, but he had a point. Blinking a few times, she attempted a smile. "I think you might be right," she said. "I feel like something awful is about to happen."

"Nerves," Paelias said, casting her a lopsided grin. "You'll do great. Trust me. I've known a lot of adventurers."

"I'm not an adventurer."

"Funny you should say that... Cause... solving mysteries, gathering a party, a healthy dose of paranoia... For someone who says she's not an adventurer, you look an awful lot like one," he said with a chuckle.

"This is really happening."

"Oh, it certainly is."

"My parents are going to disown me..."

"Cerys, if they can't accept you for who you are... if they can't be happy for what makes  _you_  happy, then have you considered maybe they don't have your best interests at heart?" he asked. "Look, I'm not saying you should cut ties, and maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm well out of line here, but... I don't think your parents understand you at all." He caught her gaze and reached across the table to pat her hand. "They're pig farmers, and they enjoy that, or they settle for it, or whatever... Point is... If you want to go be a pig farmer, you could do it. You could do it with your eyes closed - and you'd think of revolutionary ways to make pig farming more efficient or what have you... but that's not what you want." He leaned back and shrugged. "If you cared in the slightest about farming pigs, you'd be out in the sty right now, inventing some kind of automatic feeding mechanism that measures out the perfect amount of fenced grain to feed your little pigs... Instead, you're in here, with me, talking about taking down Red Wizards of Thay."

"So what?"

"What do you mean,  _so what_?" he asked. "Who else do you see in here asking those questions? I'll give you a hint:  _no one_. It's Diero's  _job_  to take down bad guys and solve murders. It's not yours. You're  _enjoying_  this... and I'll hazard a guess and say it's probably the first thing in your life you've actually enjoyed."

"I mean... I don't know. I read a book about Drizzt Do'Urden once, and I kind of enjoyed that, so..."

"It's up to you, Jones. Go home, invent your pig feeder, farm pork, marry a man like Igor Jones, give up on your dreams, have kids, raise them to take over your miserable existence, and tell yourself every day that this is your lot in life," he said. "Or go home, tell your parents your name is going to go down in history as the next Blackstaff, get off your ass, master that magic you realised and enjoy  _every single moment of it_."

"Paelias, I just don't know."

"Yes you do," he said with a scoff. "Of course you do. You're looking for someone else to tell you to go on an adventure because you feel too guilty to admit you actually  _want_ this, but we both know you  _want_  me to tell you to do it. You just want it to be someone else's fault when it all falls apart because you can't stand the thought of being a failure... Well, let me tell you Jones.  _I'm_  a big fat failure."

"You're not."

"I am. I absolutely am."

"I'd be proud if I was half as talented as you, Paelias," she said, and immediately felt uncomfortable; the compliment such a strange feeling in her mouth.

"Cerys, I am an utter failure. If you'd be proud to be this, then even if you fail, you've got nothing to worry about," he said. "Anyway... get out of here, stop worrying, and go, gather your party so we can venture forth."

Cerys laughed. "I have no idea what that means, but sure. Alright," she said, rising to her feet. "I guess I'd better go think about how I'm going to explain this to my parents."

"Yeah, well don't take  _too_  long. I'm itching to paint something different for the first time in years."

Looking him in the eye, she nodded and stepped around the table, placing her hand upon his back for a brief moment. She head for the door, nodding to Finnan on her way out.


End file.
